


Man Friday

by glitterburn (orphan_account)



Category: Dong Bang Shin Ki
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-10
Updated: 2012-07-10
Packaged: 2017-11-09 13:41:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/456078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/glitterburn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When rock star Changmin receives an invitation to play a series of concerts on a private island belonging to the mysterious billionaire Mr J, he doesn’t expect to be so captivated by Yunho, Mr J’s scruffy, smiley Man Friday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Man Friday

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rikuma](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=rikuma).



> Written for the prompt ‘billionaire’ in diagon’s Twelve Months of HoMin challenge.

_What am I doing here?_

Changmin tilted his head against the seat and stared out of the helicopter at the island coming into view beneath him. Even with the protective headset, the _whump-whump_ of the rotors chased away all but the most persistent of thoughts, and this one had nagged at him ever since they’d left Seoul.

Throughout his career, Changmin had perfected the ability to focus despite the deafening screams of tens of thousands of fans, managed to smile despite the painful screech of feedback through his earpiece. He’d travelled by helicopter before, of course, though only for short distances and most of the time more for effect than necessity, but this was different.

For a start, the helicopter was ex-military. That made Changmin even more curious about his host for the next ten days.

He wasn’t alone in his curiosity.

The island and the helicopter belonged to Mr J. He was a regular on the upper echelons of the Forbes Rich List, the approbation of which suggested that the majority of his wealth came from legitimate sources. His company, J Enterprises, seemed to have connections, investments, and dealings with practically everything that made money, from engineering to oil to military technology to sustainable resources. He lent his name—or at least his initial—to a global charity project that was truly non-profit making and, according to people who knew these sorts of things, was not a tax dodge. 

As for Mr J himself, he was an enigma. No one knew his name, his age, or what he looked like. Rumour tried to fill the gaping chasms of ignorance, but even rumour contradicted itself. Mr J was an aged invalid mouldering away in a hospital bed. Mr J was a child prodigy driven mad by his success. Mr J was a thrill-seeking playboy with a love for extreme ironing. Mr J was a woman.

Mr J never attended his own board meetings in person—or at least not to his employees’ knowledge. He never went out in public—or perhaps he did, but since no one knew what he looked like, that was something of a moot point. He didn’t date actresses or models—or maybe he did, and they’d all signed non-disclosure agreements and had been well paid for their silence. Mr J had never had any scandals with the pool-boy, a pygmy hippopotamus, and a kilo of finest quality cocaine—although again, non-disclosure agreements, bribes, and a vet would take care of a scandal of that magnitude.

In short, Changmin knew what everyone else in the world knew regarding Mr J—nothing. Zip. Nada. Except...

Except Changmin did know one thing that most other people didn’t. Mr J liked music. _His_ music. Mr J liked Ripsaw, and he liked Changmin’s solo work, too.

Changmin had been invited to the island via a personal letter typewritten on heavy, pristine white paper and delivered by an attractive young woman who introduced herself as Mr J’s Seoul representative. She had never met her employer and had never visited his island, but she did list an impressive number of royals, politicians, business magnates, oil barons, media moguls, movie stars, the Beckhams, and assorted other famous or infamous persons who had stayed on the island as Mr J’s honoured guests.

And now, apparently, it was Changmin’s turn. 

He supposed he should be flattered, but it also made him uneasy. He knew what money could do. He knew it could buy anything. 

That was why he was here, Changmin acknowledged, answering his own earlier question. He was here for the money. Ten million US dollars for five private concerts of an hour to two hours’ duration. Easy money. Perhaps the easiest fortune he’d ever make. It was a no-brainer, even without the pressure from his manager to accept the offer, and it wasn’t as if he hadn’t played private gigs before.

But still, this was different. He’d never done anything like this on his own, on a private island, at the whim of one of the world’s most reclusive billionaires.

It felt alarmingly close to selling out.

*

The helicopter approached the island from the east. Changmin moved a little closer to the window, taking in the view. Shaped like a piece of knapped flint, the island was dominated by the half moon of a collapsed volcano, the sides streaked with scree to the south and covered with clumping masses of forest to the west and north. Tucked inside the curve of the volcanic shell was a house, all steel and glass and stone, looking like some kind of armoured insect rising from its nest. Changmin shuddered and turned his gaze elsewhere.

The beaches stretched all around the east side of the island to the point, then thinned around the north-west. Another hill, maybe the plug of the volcano, rose gently to the north-east. The forest was thickest around there, and as the helicopter dropped lower, birds panicked and flew from the trees, scattering beneath the chopper’s shadow.

“Three minutes,” the pilot said through the headset, and Changmin nodded. He found his mirrored sunglasses and put them on, the familiar gesture bringing a little instant of calm as the note from the rotors changed and the helicopter wagged towards the landing pad. 

Changmin assumed his most jaded expression. He might as well look like a rock star, even if there were no paparazzi and no screaming fans awaiting him. In fact, there was no one on the helipad at all, and his irritation began a slow burn.

With a bump and a shuffle, the helicopter touched down and the rotors slowly exhaled to a stop. Changmin stayed in his seat. The pilot got out, came around the chopper and opened the door. A glare of heat hit him, reflected from the ground. Blowing his fringe from his eyes, Changmin stepped down onto the tarmac. Now he regretted his decision to wear leather trousers and biker boots and a long, flowing, multi-panelled coat fashioned from brocade and snakeskin over a ribbon-stitched suede vest. He’d looked like a rock god when he boarded the helicopter. Now he just looked sweaty and over-dressed, and there wasn’t even anyone around to be impressed by his efforts. 

To cover his growing annoyance, he turned to retrieve a couple of items from within the chopper. The pilot had already said that the other cases, which contained Changmin’s stage outfits, would be taken into the main house. That just left the bag with his casual everyday wear and his guitar case. He ducked his head beneath the strap of the guitar case and felt marginally better when the familiar weight of the instrument lay across his back. 

The wheels on his travel bag had got jammed on his seat. Changmin tugged, then heaved at it until his hands, slick with sweat, lost their grip. He stumbled backwards, windmilling like a complete idiot. He just knew he was going to end up on his ass, and twisted sideways in an attempt to protect his guitar.

“Oh, hey.” Someone caught him around the waist. Someone who then moved smartly in step with Changmin’s trajectory, pulled him close, and somehow managed to stop the guitar case from smacking them both in the jaw or the back of the head as Changmin tried to straighten up. They ended in an awkward embrace, Changmin side-on and with his arm pressed against his rescuer’s broad chest.

“I’m fine,” Changmin snapped, shoulders stiffening. “You can let go.”

He regretted those words a few seconds later when he turned around and got a good look at the guy who’d been cuddling him. The welcoming committee may have been tardy, but boy, was it sexy. Hair shot through with shades of chestnut and copper, a sweet, cat-like face, a throat that made Changmin want to lick the whole way up its length, and then a bunch of other spectacular highlights that included shoulders and chest and thighs and oh fuck me sideways, that _smile_.

“Hi! I’m Yunho. Welcome to the island.” The welcoming committee’s smile rivalled the sun and seemed just as honest. “Let me take your bag.”

“Thanks.” Changmin stood aside and watched as Yunho extricated the troublesome suitcase from the helicopter. Safe behind his sunglasses, Changmin turned the once-over into a twice-over. Great legs. Sexy arms. A glistening of sweat on the back of the neck. Ratty flip-flops. Khaki knee-length shorts with fraying hems, and a decrepit t-shirt bearing the faded legend _Frankie Says Relax_ , which seemed like sound advice for a desert island paradise.

“Here we go.” Yunho tilted the case on its wheels and started off across the heat-softened tarmac. “I’ll show you to your bungalow.”

Changmin followed him. “Bungalow? Not...” he glanced towards the glass and steel construction inside the shattered bowl of the volcano, “I’m not staying in there?”

“Mr J prefers not to have guests in the main house.” When the tarmac ran out, Yunho picked up the case and carried it. “There are five bungalows around the island. I live in one of them; the rest are for Mr J’s visitors. I’ve put you in the one just along here. It’s got such a nice view. The palm trees on the east coast get buffeted by the wind so they’ve grown into bendy shapes, and they frame the beach and make it look like, I don’t know, like you’re looking at paradise from paradise.”

“Okay,” Changmin said, and it came out sounding sarcastic rather than enthused. Maybe he should try harder. 

They went down a couple of wooden steps onto a gravel-strewn path. Trees rose above and undergrowth tangled around them, a sweep of glossy green leaves dotted with vivid red and yellow flowers. The earth smelled moist, a thick scent that clogged his head, cut through with the sweetness of orchids or some other type of flower he couldn’t identify. Though he could hear the boom of the waves on the shore, the sounds closest to him were the shrill of insects and the occasional croaking call of a bird.

It seemed warmer beneath the trees, not cooler. Changmin swung his guitar from his back, leaned it against his leg, and took off his coat. Sweat ran down the inside of his arms, trickled the length of his spine, and glued the silk lining of his waistcoat to his chest. He scruffed the back of his head, his hair feeling too thick and heavy for this kind of humidity.

Yunho paused and gave him a sympathetic look. “It’s cooler down by the beach. Come on.”

Changmin picked up his guitar and slung it over his shoulder. The gravel crunched beneath their feet. Every couple of paces he noticed lights set into the side of the path. This place must be pitch-black at night. He couldn’t imagine it, not after a lifetime of living in Seoul where the midnight sky was painted with the spray of lights.

“So,” he said, trying harder. “Yunho. What do you do here?”

Yunho glanced over his shoulder and smiled. “I’m Mr J’s Man Friday here on the island. I’m just one of the many representatives he has tucked away in the various countries in which he does business. He’s got people like me all over the world. We’re his spokesmen—spokespersons? Spokespeople? Whatever. We’re his fixers.” 

“Like the girl in Seoul who gave me the invitation?” Changmin asked. “I think her name was Tiffany. Pretty girl, if you like that sort of thing.”

“No idea.” Another of those delicious smiles. “I rarely leave the island. I’m a sort of glorified caretaker for the whole place.”

Changmin blinked. “You must get lonely.”

“Sometimes.” Yunho’s smile faded somewhat, and then he shrugged. “Mr J has a lot of guests, so I’m never often alone.”

“I have the opposite problem.”

“Not alone often enough?” Yunho turned and walked backwards a few steps, eyebrows arched in curiosity.

Changmin bent his head, pushed his sunglasses up higher. “Something like that.”

They dropped back into silence as they followed the winding path over a section of boardwalk bridging a gurgling stream, and then gravel gave way to packed earth as they skirted closer to the beach. The moist warmth of the forest was forgotten, blown away by the ocean breeze and the fresh tang of ozone. 

Changmin stood for a moment and let the gentle wind move over him, feeling it lift his damp hair and lick at his chest and bare arms as he gazed at the long stretch of pale white sand and the incredible blue of the sea merging with the fainter blue of the sky. Just as Yunho had said, the palm trees straggling along the top of the beach had been contorted into odd shapes, and their dark leaves shook and rustled. Now this—this looked like paradise, and Changmin sighed. 

“Nice, huh.” Yunho switched the suitcase from one hand to the other. “The path to the bungalow continues through the forest, but you might prefer to walk the rest of the way along the beach.”

“Yes,” Changmin said without hesitation. God, he wanted to ditch his guitar and strip down to his underwear and just sprawl in the sand, but he was a rock star and rock stars didn’t so much as roll up their leather trousers and go paddling. Still, he promised himself that he’d come back out here and relax as soon as possible.

Yunho strode on ahead, saying something about not walking along the beach at night when the tide was in because a protected species of crab liked to scuttle out of the sea and burrow into the sand, and it would be really bad if a guest trod on a crab. Changmin wasn’t really listening, too content to stroll and look at the view, so he wasn’t sure if treading on the crab would be bad news for him or for the crustacean.

He tore his gaze from the endless blue of the sea beyond the splash of the breakers and made a sound, half quizzical, half in astonishment, at the sight of the bungalow. Set a few metres back from the top of the beach, it was raised a short height from the ground on stilts and had a wide veranda of some sort of gleaming hardwood. At one end sat a dining table and chairs; at the opposite end a hammock filled with cushions swayed in the breeze. The bungalow was constructed of the same dark wood. There was no glass in the windows, no solid door in the door frame; just a very fine mesh to keep out insects.

Changmin took off his sunglasses and folded them into the front of his suede vest. He followed Yunho up the steps onto the veranda and then paused as Yunho kicked off his flip-flops and carried the suitcase indoors. Good manners won out, and Changmin unslung his guitar and laid it on the table, then bent to unfasten and untie all the zips and buckles and laces on his biker boots.

Inside, the bungalow was open plan: to the right, a queen-size four-poster frothing with mosquito nets; on the left, a sitting area with a couple of couches arranged around a coffee table and shelves built into the wall filled with books and magazines. Yunho set down the suitcase on the sea chest beside the bed and pointed out the few techie things Mr J had provided for Changmin’s convenience—an iPad, a notebook with satellite connection, and a phone.

“There’s only one number on it,” Yunho said. “Hit speed dial and you’ll get me. Call any time of the day or night if you need something, anything, and I’ll provide it to the best of my abilities.”

The phone was an old model Nokia in a lurid shade of pink. Changmin studied it. “So if I fancy fresh coconut milk at three o’clock in the morning...?”

Yunho beamed. “Call me and I’ll get it for you.”

Changmin snorted and shook his head. “Man, I am going to have so much fun here.” He pushed aside the nets, placed the phone on the bedside table, and tossed his head to flick back his hair, giving Yunho what he hoped was a teasing look.

Yunho just smiled and went over to the breakfast bar dividing the living/sleeping space from the kitchen. On it sat a bowl of fruit that looked so perfect it was as if each individual mango and dragonfruit had been polished to a high gloss; propped against it was a heavy white envelope bearing Changmin’s name.

“From Mr J,” Yunho said, handing over the envelope.

Changmin took it, sliding a finger beneath the flap and wincing at the tear of the paper. It seemed such an ugly noise in such a peaceful place, where the only other sound was the distant crash of the waves. He went over to the sitting area and drew out the letter. Yet again it was typewritten, and the message was brusque and to the point. Mr J welcomed Changmin to the island and hoped he had a pleasant stay; if he needed anything he should direct his queries to Yunho; this was the schedule of the concerts. The first would be held in two days’ time on Sunday night, with the next two running consecutively, and then he would have a few days of leisure before the final two concerts on days nine and ten of his stay.

“No set list?” Changmin asked, turning the letter over in case he’d missed it.

Yunho wandered into the kitchen, looking unconcerned. “He’ll probably contact you again about that a little closer to the time.”

The irritation that Changmin had eased away earlier now threatened to make a return. “It would be helpful if I knew now.”

“Well.” Yunho lifted his hands and shrugged. “I imagine Mr J wants you to relax and enjoy a couple of days of doing nothing before you think of work.”

“Work.” Changmin stared. It was odd to hear his livelihood described thus, even though it was true. It _was_ work. Especially since his comeback as a solo singer. His manager and the company executives talked about music in terms of product, which made Changmin think his voice was akin to toothpaste or ready meals or purple sparkly hair scrunchies. Interviewers spoke of it as a talent, which was perhaps closer to the truth; talent honed through hard work and determination and experience. And his fans—they said he was divinely touched, god-gifted, and the sun shone out of his ass. All very nice, but he didn’t believe a word of it.

Yes, work was exactly what it was, and the knowledge depressed him.

“I’m sorry,” Yunho said, gaze sharpening and his features softening to something close to understanding. “Do you prefer another term?”

“No.” Changmin shook his head. “Work is fine. That’s what it is.”

“I just wanted to be sure.” Uncertainty touched Yunho’s expression for a moment. “Some singers can be particular. They’re not singers, they’re artistes. It’s not work, it’s communion with the heavens. That sort of thing. I don’t have a problem with it, but if there’s a specific way you want to be addressed or whatever, let me know and I can do my best to accommodate you and make you feel at home.”

Startled, Changmin laughed. “I’m really not that fussy, despite what you may think.”

“I just met you. I don’t know enough about you yet to have formed an opinion.” Yunho gave him a dazzling smile.

Oh, cute. In every sense of the word. Changmin felt an answering smile tug at his lips. “But you know who I am, right?”

Yunho nodded, then tilted his head and looked Changmin up and down in a way that made him go a little weak at the knees. 

“Shim Changmin,” Yunho said as if reciting memorised text. “Ex-lead singer with Ripsaw, the most critically acclaimed rock band ever to come out of Korea. Also enjoyed massive success in Japan. Following an acrimonious split with the rest of the band over royalties and a lawsuit over rights to the songs, which you lost, you did military service and then your management company relaunched you as a solo artist aimed primarily at the Japanese market, where once again you’ve been very successful...”

It sounded kind of dull put like that. Changmin laughed again, the sound thin and reedy. “What, did you get that from my Wikipedia page?”

Yunho grinned. “I did. Mr J likes me to know something about his guests, if only so I can make polite conversation.”

Tucking the letter back into its envelope, Changmin dropped both onto the coffee table and went over to the nearest bookshelf. He browsed the titles and took down a book at random for a closer look. “If you’ve read my Wikipedia page, you must know a few other things about me.”

“Fishing for compliments, Mr Shim?”

“That’s not what I meant.” He shook off his lowering mood and tried a smile over his shoulder. “And you can call me Changmin.”

“You’re talking about scandals?” Yunho raised his eyebrows, looking very amused. “You hardly have any of note. Some of the people who’ve stayed here have had more scandals in a week than you’ve had in your entire lifetime. I don’t judge them any more than I judge you. I’m not here for that. It’s my job to look after you while you’re resident and to help you enjoy your stay.”

Changmin breathed an inward sigh of relief that Yunho didn’t seem to disapprove of his brief, ill-advised affair with one of his co-stars on an independent art house film he’d made in Japan last year. Things would’ve been fine if the co-star hadn’t been (a) male and (b) already in a relationship with an actress older and far more famous than both of them. 

Still, these things happened, and the actress had gone on the record saying that she was open to a ménage. The offer didn’t appeal in the slightest, and even though his manager had told him to go for it as a way of guaranteeing future success within the Japanese movie industry, Changmin turned his back on his erstwhile lover and on independent art house films. Neither were what he really wanted to do, and he was getting tired of diversifying just to please the company. 

“Anyway,” Yunho said, “even without the Wikipedia page, I knew who you were. Mr J has a signed photo of you in his office.”

Changmin returned the book to the shelf. “Really? Have I met him before?”

Yunho lifted his shoulders again in a half shrug. “You must meet a lot of people.”

“I do. I have. But...” The idea that he’d met the mysterious Mr J intrigued Changmin. “The only time I’m not introduced to people individually is at fan meets. Are you telling me that Mr J went to one of those?”

“Maybe.” Yunho beckoned him into the kitchen area and started opening cupboard doors, indicating various foodstuffs and other items. “It’s a nice photo. You look happy.”

“What was I wearing?” Changmin glanced inside the fridge, took note of the bottles of mineral water and jugs of fresh fruit juice and lemonade plus a range of beers.

“If you want wine, let me know the grape, country of origin, and vintage, and I’ll fetch it from the cellar of the main house,” Yunho said, then added, “I don’t know what you were wearing. Clothes. Some blue thing. But your hair wasn’t as long as it is now and it was wavy.”

“February,” Changmin said with utter certainty. “The fan meeting in Osaka on the twentieth. Mr J was really there?”

“He gets around.” Going over to the back door, Yunho opened it and gestured outside at a smaller veranda and a covered walkway leading to an annexe. “Bathroom is through here. There’s a spa pool set in natural rock if you go down the steps from the back porch and hang a right. It’s kind of impressive to look at but a bitch to clean. Not that you need to worry about that.”

Yunho closed the mesh screen door and shoved his hands in his pockets, smiling at Changmin. “I think that covers everything. Any questions?”

_You’re hot, can I hit on you?_ Changmin turned away. “Uh, no. Not right now. Thanks. I’ll just...” He waved vaguely at his suitcase.

“I can unpack for you, if you like,” Yunho offered.

“It’s fine. I’m used to doing it for myself. But thanks. Again.” An awkward silence. Changmin blew at his fringe and shuffled his feet. Thought longingly of a cool shower to freshen up and then a stroll along the beach. “Thank you.”

“Okay. I’ll be going, then.” Yunho’s smile seared the air. “Don’t hesitate to call if you think of anything you need.”

“Thank you,” Changmin repeated, feeling like a stuck record. They both stood there, looking at one another. Weirdly, it wasn’t awkward this time; or at least it wasn’t until Changmin started thinking about it. Determined to dig out one last piece of information, he asked, “Mr J—what’s he like?”

Yunho smiled again. “He likes you.”

* * *

Changmin woke late, spread out like a starfish face down on the bed with the lightweight quilt shoved to one side and the pillows strewn at angles. He blinked at the weave of the Egyptian cotton sheets and breathed in the unfamiliar scent of vanilla and jasmine, and then he remembered where he was and rolled over.

The mosquito nets stirred gently in the breeze curling in through the open door and windows. Last night, he’d thought he’d be cold without a proper door or actual glass in the windows, but the night had been soft and warm. He’d thought he wouldn’t be able to sleep at all, but he had. Deep and dreamless—or at least he didn’t remember his dreams, which was a nice change. 

Usually he dreamed of crawling insects, or hiding under rags while beaks snapped at him, or trying desperately to find a toilet, or walking in the rain through a grey world and kissing some faceless man until his teeth fell out. Weird dreams that made him feel tired as soon as he woke, but today he felt refreshed and at peace, and he lay in bed a while longer listening to the waves on the shore.

He dozed again, got up half an hour later and pulled on an orange t-shirt and a pair of denim shorts, then went out onto the veranda. Breakfast had been laid on the table, and Changmin sat and poured himself a glass of grapefruit juice, a cup of coffee, and then investigated the contents of the covered dishes. After the simple but satisfying dinner he’d found waiting for him last night after his walk on the beach, he’d expected to make his own breakfast this morning. Instead he’d been served a rather international selection of food—rice porridge, grilled fish, fruit, brioche _à tête_ with preserves, tiny omelettes stuffed with vegetables—and although he didn’t have much of a sweet tooth, he couldn’t resist the churros with the cup of hot chocolate, thick and creamy with just a hint of chilli.

It was probably a good job he didn’t have to perform until tomorrow night. He wanted to live inside this breakfast and keep eating forever.

Changmin had just finished his second cup of coffee and was staring at the sea without any thoughts cluttering his mind when he saw Yunho running along the beach. Not some half-assed jog but proper running, as if he meant it. Changmin put down his cup and sat up straight, unable to stop the spark of interest. Even from this distance he could see that Yunho’s grey vest was striped with sweat and admired how Yunho’s black shorts clung to his long, muscled thighs. He was wearing headphones and appeared to be lost inside his own little world, but as he passed the bungalow he glanced over, flashed a wide grin at Changmin, and waved.

Exercise is only fun when you’re watching someone else do it. Changmin tossed his head and didn’t wave back. Instead he dipped the last of the churros into the chocolate and ate it, one sweet, hot mouthful at a time.

Fifteen minutes later, Yunho returned and climbed the steps onto the veranda. He was smiling, his hair wet, skin damp, vest and shorts clinging even tighter. Changmin didn’t know where to look. _Everywhere_ would seem to be the correct answer, given how much rampant masculinity was on display, but Changmin wimped out and focused his attention on Yunho’s happy face.

“Good morning!”

“Hi.” Changmin lost the battle with his own willpower and let his gaze drift down. Oh yeah. The view from the cheap seats was looking mighty fine. His perusal came to a halt somewhere around Yunho’s midsection, and Changmin frowned. “You appear to be wet.”

“I cool down after a run by jumping in the sea.” Yunho beamed.

“Of course.” Belatedly, Changmin remembered his manners and gestured at the table. “Would you like something? Juice, coffee...”

“You liked the churros?” Yunho pulled out one of the chairs and sat beside Changmin so as not to block the view of the beach. Not that Changmin would have minded, because a hottie in a wet vest was pretty high up on his list of things he enjoyed looking at, but he appreciated the gesture all the same. 

“They were delicious. Did you make them?”

Yunho laughed, the sound as bright as sunlight. “Afraid not. When Mr J has guests here, he brings in a cook, who has a suite in the main house along with the helicopter pilot. Neither of them spends any time with the guests, though. That’s my job, to be the errand boy.” He glanced at Changmin for permission then helped himself to some of the prepared fruit. “Did you sleep well?”

“Very well. I didn’t expect that.”

Nodding, Yunho made a muffled noise around a mouthful of honeydew melon then said, “The no door, no windows thing freaks some people out.”

Changmin brushed at his fringe. “Yeah. In Seoul my apartment is on the twenty-first floor and has so many security codes it takes me five minutes to get inside. There are security guys downstairs and a special key for the lifts, but even then I still get fans camping outside my door every now and then. It was worse when I lived in the company’s dorms. Some of our managers took bribes from fans—seriously, the fans literally bankrolled some of them—and sometimes we’d come back to find girls actually inside our apartment and going through our stuff and wearing our clothes and... It was horrible. We had to get used to it, but that kind of thing scared me, to be honest.”

He paused, took a breath and tilted the cup of chocolate towards him. Only the dregs remained. “So, yeah. It made me nervous as hell when I went to bed last night and there were no windows to shut, no front door to lock, and the lights on the veranda and back porch were remote-controlled or turned on by actual switches rather than activated by sensors. And then there was the noise—the waves, I mean, and the wind in the trees, and I thought I’d be awake all night because of it, but instead...”

Yunho smiled at him. “I was exactly the same when I first came here. Thought I’d never get any rest, but now I can’t sleep when I’m away from it. I couldn’t go back to living in a city. Not after this.”

“Where are you from?” Changmin asked.

A pause while Yunho twisted a few grapes from their stalks. “Gwangju.”

“Oh.” Changmin ran his forefinger around the inside of his cup, scraping out the last vestiges of chocolate. “Well, this is certainly different to Gwangju.”

“It is.” Yunho finished the grapes and pushed back his chair. “Give me fifteen minutes to shower and change, and I’ll take you up to the main house and show you the stage and everything that’s been prepared for your concerts.”

Startled by his abruptness, Changmin blinked. “Okay. Thank you.”

“My house is right on the northern tip of the island.” Yunho nodded in that direction. “I won’t be long. But please don’t feel rushed. Take your time finishing breakfast.” He lifted a hand in goodbye then bounced down the steps and strode off along the beach.

Changmin watched him go, conscious that he’d unwittingly touched a nerve there. Maybe Yunho didn’t like his hometown. Changmin had met people from Gwangju. Some of them were weird. Mind you, that was true of just about everywhere. Putting it from his mind, he had another half-cup of coffee then went indoors to change. He didn’t know if he’d meet Mr J today, but just in case, he chose a pair of expensively distressed and faded charcoal grey jeans and a scoop-necked black t-shirt. Then he went back outside and ate a few grapes while he waited.

Yunho returned not long after, wearing olive green combat trousers and a black vest and smelling of citrusy shower gel and a warm, spicy-sweet cologne that Changmin didn’t recognise. They walked along the beach and then on the gravel path through the forest. The air was cooler today, less humid. Through the gaps in the trees he could see the house perched inside the collapsed volcano. He supposed it was a triumph of engineering or some such thing, but it looked pretentious and wanky, all shiny glass and bold steel and grey-black stone. No doubt it reflected Mr J’s personality. In Changmin’s opinion, most billionaires had no taste—except, of course, Mr J did like his music and therefore some small allowance could be made. 

Yunho caught his expression. “You don’t like it?”

Changmin pressed his lips together to stifle his first response, then said, “I’m sure it won lots of design awards.”

“You hate it.” Yunho seemed amused. “Mr J isn’t too fond of it, either. But you’re right, it did win awards. Or at least the designer did. Some Norwegian guy famous for building glass boxes on girders and utilising the natural environment to create enhancements of the landscape or some such bollocks.”

“Enhancements?” Changmin snorted. “It looks like a really crap Transformer made out of Lego.”

Yunho started laughing. “God, you’re right. It does.”

“You don’t like it, either?”

“Why do you think I took the bungalow on the other side of the island?” Still laughing, Yunho added, “Every time I come this way, I kind of hope that the volcano has become active again and buried the place in a massive pyroclastic flow.”

The idea tickled Changmin and he sputtered with laughter. “It would improve things immeasurably. And would probably win another design award.”

Yunho hooted, then clamped a hand over his mouth, his eyes sparkling. He shook his head. “You’re a terrible guest. No, I’m the terrible one. I should be giving you all these boring facts and figures about how eco-friendly the house is and about all the works of art displayed inside it and blah blah blah, but all I can think of is a Lego Transformer surfing on lava.”

They were still laughing by the time they reached one of the many entrances to the house. Changmin’s amusement faded as they went inside and he was struck by the full effect of the design. The glass over the ceilings was tinted in places and made the jagged crest of the volcano seem menacing. Perhaps guests weren’t supposed to look up. Perhaps they were supposed to look out at the view of the forest and the sea, or they were supposed to look at the immaculate white walls adorned with original artworks, from Botticelli sketches to Burne-Jones canvases to a series of Utagawa woodblock prints.

“Most visitors go on and on about the art,” Yunho said when Changmin examined the pieces but stayed silent.

“They seem... haphazard.”

“Aren’t most collections?”

Changmin blew out his breath. “When I was a kid, I collected pebbles. I was kind of sad and had no friends, so I spent a lot of time collecting pebbles. And I spent even more time arranging them according to size and shape and colour, and then I mixed them up and made patterns with them, tonal variations, and I knew instinctively which pebbles matched and which didn’t.”

“No wonder you became a musician.” Yunho smiled, gestured at the wall of art. “You don’t think any of them match, not even as variations.”

“It’s just random. No harmony.” Changmin shrugged and turned away.

“I hope you approve of this, at least.” Yunho led him along a corridor and opened a door. “This is your dressing room.”

Changmin looked around, noting that his outfits had been taken out of their cases and hung neatly. He nodded, and Yunho opened a second door. “Your stage.”

They stepped out into a large auditorium panelled with wood. The stage itself was shaped like a cockle shell or the flattened hull of a ship, with gentle curves and strakes. Changmin snapped his fingers and listened to the bounce of the echo. Perfect acoustics. “Is this here all the time?”

Yunho scuffed a foot across the stage floor. “Nope. Mr J had it constructed especially for you. After you’ve done your concerts, it’ll be dismantled and donated to a theatre company or something like that.”

All this for a one-off event. Changmin shook his head, crouched to run a hand over the floor, then looked up at the lighting rigs. “This is incredible.”

“Mr J wanted you to have the best.” Yunho looked a bit distracted now, or maybe he was bored. “There’s a static video camera here if you want to rehearse and check things back. Also, all the tech stuff—lighting and sound—is controlled by computer. It’s not difficult. Even I can make it work. Let’s go through it now...”

Changmin paid attention as Yunho showed him how to set up the stage and the sound and pre-program everything so he could cue it all by remote control. It was an innovative and intuitive system, and Changmin was full of praise for it.

“As I said, Mr J wanted you to have the best.” Yunho stepped back from the tech desk and looked out at the empty auditorium. “Oh yeah, and it’ll just be you up here. Mr J had a bunch of musicians record a whole load of songs, so you’ll be working with backing tracks only.”

“Right.” Changmin had expected something like that. He didn’t mind. In a way it was easier than working with session musicians, but he always felt that a performance lost something vital when he sang accompanied by a backing track. But that was Mr J’s choice, not his, so he wasn’t going to worry about it. “Is there any way I can get a copy of the tracks?”

Yunho wrinkled his nose. “You could always cue one up now, how about that? Then at least you can hear what the levels are like or whatever it is you need to know.”

“That’ll have to do.” Changmin watched as Yunho turned back to the tech desk and demonstrated how to pull up and select from the music database. “Shit, there must be hundreds of songs on here!”

“I guess Mr J thought you might want to do some covers.”

“Yeah, I guess. I am here for five gigs, after all.” Changmin leaned against Yunho’s arm and flicked through the songs, stopping at random in the listings for Def Leppard. “ _Pour Some Sugar On Me_. I haven’t sung that in years. Maybe Mr J would like to hear it. I can really cut loose to some of those classics.”

Yunho didn’t say anything. He moved aside, taking his phone from his pocket and reading a message. Changmin wondered if it was from Mr J. Yunho frowned, then glanced up. “I’m sorry, I need to take care of something. Do you think you’ll be okay with all this?”

Conscious of a small sense of disappointment, Changmin nodded. “I suppose so. It’ll be a bit weird, though. Usually there’s people everywhere when I set up.” He curled his fingers inwards into loose fists and swung his arms, exhaling some of the tension he always felt in a new and untried venue. “Will you stay? Just for one song? I kind of need someone to aim at, if you know what I mean.”

For a moment Changmin thought he’d be refused. Yunho’s grip tightened on his phone; he bit his lower lip, then smiled, bright and sunny once more. “Okay. But please excuse me if I write an email at the same time.”

“That’s fine. It’s just a sound check, not a performance.”

Yunho sat in the shadows to the far left of the auditorium and stared at his phone. Changmin searched the music database for his most recent song, _(You) Don’t Love Me_ , cued it up and then took the remote control and went to stand in middle of the stage. He sang a couple of notes, listened to the echo, and adjusted his position. Yunho typed something into his phone, giving his full concentration to the email, and Changmin felt offended. Ridiculous, really. Yunho was just the hired help, a glorified housekeeper who fetched and carried and cleaned the spa. It wasn’t as if he was a music critic.

Even so, shyness gripped him and Changmin closed his eyes, did a few vocal warm-up exercises before he hit the button on the remote. He listened to the jittery opening bars, the music swelling, then the beat switched, countered itself, and he started singing. Before long he sank into it, delighted with the sound quality and pleased with the backing track. The musicians Mr J had employed were better than the session musicians the company used. Changmin had been afraid that they’d play the music cold, but there was just enough emotion in it to complement and lift his voice. He couldn’t have asked for more. Smiling, he looked over towards Yunho.

Except Yunho wasn’t there. He must have slipped out sometime during the song.

Changmin’s happiness dimmed. He didn’t know if it was because Yunho didn’t hear all of the song or because he didn’t notice Yunho leave.

*

Yunho didn’t come back to the auditorium, so Changmin set the video camera and recorded an hour’s worth of rehearsal, then watched it back twice, taking notes on his performance. He went out to the dressing room to look through his outfits, and when he returned to the auditorium he found a light lunch of his favourite types of sushi, a bowl of miso, and a bottle of water set on the tech desk waiting for him. Changmin ate, then reviewed his notes and ran the whole thing again from the top, making adjustments to his vocals and to the sound system and lighting as he went.

When he was satisfied with his performance he scrolled through the music database, picked out a couple of old rock songs, and sang them just for fun, Guns ‘n’ Roses and Bon Jovi, and he jumped around the stage and went really wild just because he could.

Yunho still didn’t come back, so Changmin turned out the lights in the auditorium and retraced his footsteps through the dressing room and along the corridor, past the artworks, and out of the side door. He supposed he could have gone snooping around the rest of the house, but it didn’t really appeal.

It was early evening, and the air blew soft and warm with the sea breeze. Changmin arrived at his bungalow to find dinner ready on the table, and he drank half a bottle of a very good red with his meal and then retired to bed with a book plucked at random from one of the shelves. He lay there for a while, listening to the ocean, aware of the excitement shimmering through him. It was always the same—on the eve of a concert he’d get like this, pumped up and raring to go, looking forward to seeing his performance reflected back at him from his audience.

He put down the book and turned out the light, rolled from one side of the bed to the other, then punched the pillows. At last, unable to sleep, he got up, found a torch, and went for a walk. He remembered what Yunho had said about the crabs burrowing into the sand and stayed on the path until he realised the tide was out, and then he strolled along the beach. He went north, the breeze sharpening as he reached the tip of the island, and then he saw a light amongst the night shadows of the forest.

Yunho’s house.

Changmin switched off his torch and, covered in warm darkness, went closer.

Thanks to the open door and windows, he could see right inside without difficulty. The bungalow was almost identical to the one he was staying in, the main difference being the amount of clutter. Yunho’s place was messy but homely, with more furniture and a rather freestyle approach to the decor, which included an Escher print and some sort of tall, painted wooden tribal statue that would give most people nightmares. Yunho lay sprawled across a couch beneath a colourful patchwork blanket, reading a battered paperback and occasionally sipping from a mug. He was wearing black-rimmed glasses and his hair was ruffled more than usual, and he looked... touchable.

Changmin winced. Touchable? What a stupid thought. Yunho looked touchable all the time, with that chest and those legs and that big beaming smile. But this was different, somehow. 

_Yeah, Shim, maybe because you’re being a creeper pervert and_ spying _on him._

Frowning at his lame behaviour, Changmin turned away and stubbed his toe on a rock. While he just about managed to keep back a yelp of surprised pain, he succeeded in dropping the torch. It hit the ground with a thud then skished along the gravel path.

Changmin ducked down, partly to rub at his toe and partly in an attempt to retrieve the torch. He hoped that Yunho hadn’t heard anything over the sound of the waves, but obviously Yunho was part bat because he threw off the blanket and came out onto the veranda to peer into the night.

He stood there for a long time, then called out, “Changmin?”

Too embarrassed to reply, Changmin remained scrunched on the ground. He held very still until Yunho went back inside, and then he pulled the torch towards him and beat a hasty retreat back to his own bungalow.

* * *

He slept late again. When he woke and went out onto the veranda, Changmin found a now-familiar heavy white envelope propped up on one of the covered dishes of his breakfast. He put it aside, poured a glass of mango juice and a cup of coffee, and began to eat. No churros today, but some beautiful miniature almond croissants that tempted him past his decision to eat only two of them. 

The tide was in this morning, covering half of the beach. He looked at his watch. Yunho had been out for a run this time yesterday, and Changmin wondered idly where he was today.

After he’d finished eating, Changmin poured another cup of coffee. Only then did he pick up the envelope and open it. The same impersonal typewritten font glared at him. The letter contained the set list for tonight’s concert.

Changmin stared at the page. Mr J wanted him to sing all of the songs from Ripsaw’s first album, plus the handful of B-sides and their X-Japan cover.

The X-Japan song was fine. Everything else was not. He couldn’t sing any Ripsaw song. Not a single one, even though he’d written them all. The band’s legal team had seen to that during the carnage of the lawsuit. He was forbidden from singing any of those songs, and yet Mr J was demanding it of him.

Well, fuck that.

Changmin threw down the letter. It wasn’t enough, so he clenched his fist, banged it on the table hard enough to hurt, and then swept his hand across, sending food and crockery and cutlery and chopsticks crashing to the veranda floor. “Shit,” he said aloud, then yelled it, sharp and furious, before he slumped back in his chair and stared up at the sky framed by palm trees.

That didn’t help, either. His pride hurt, his rage still simmering, he shoved back his chair, stepped around the mess he’d made, and stalked off along the path towards the main house. He was going to have words with Mr J. Angry words. Short words. Words that mainly consisted of four letters.

He walked fast, his footsteps heavy and determined on the gravel and then forming a solid, percussive beat on the hard-packed earth. His anger blocked almost everything else from his mind, and he swiped at branches and kicked at pebbles as he hurried through the forest.

A flash of colour made him slow, then stop. Breathing hard, his heart pounding as anger still spiked through him, Changmin moved off the path into the trees near the water’s edge. He pushed at the glossy leaves and stepped over creepers on the ground, then came to a halt and stared.

Yunho was in the sea, swimming with the same intense focus he’d shown yesterday with his running. There was only a sliver of beach here between the forest and the water, and now Changmin could see what had snared his attention—Yunho’s peacock blue t-shirt, abandoned high up on the sand alongside his running shoes.

Changmin knew he should announce himself, step from his cover and call out to Yunho and demand to see Mr J, but for some reason his feet wouldn’t shift and he just stood there, frozen, as Yunho splashed and turned then headed for the shore.

_Move. Do it now, Shim. Move!_

His feet had grown roots into the ground. He couldn’t move if his life depended on it, but Changmin tried. He really did. But then everything, absolutely everything, went clean out of his head as Yunho straightened up and emerged from the waves, running his hands through his wet hair, all Daniel Craig and Honey Rider and oh. _Oh_.

For a heart-stopping moment, Changmin thought Yunho was naked. But no, it was just that his shorts had ridden dangerously low on his hips, revealing a tantalising amount of tanned skin and more than a glimpse of pubic hair, and if that wasn’t enough, the silky drenched fabric clung lovingly to the shape of Yunho’s cock.

Changmin curled his hands into tight fists. Lust snarled at him, all his anger routing into a far more basic need. He _wanted_. He imagined himself shoving his way out of the trees and striding across the scrap of beach and pulling Yunho down into the shallows and—and... Oh God, he wanted Yunho to fuck him, he wanted to be taken on the sand beneath the sunlight with the waves splashing over their joined bodies, and he wanted to scream out his pleasure so loud that every single bird on the island would shriek and erupt skywards in envy.

He didn’t move. He remained absolutely still, fingernails cutting into his palms, as Yunho waded out of the sea, picked up his t-shirt and running shoes and sauntered off, water trickling a dozen fascinating paths over his bare skin.

Changmin waited until Yunho had gone before he leaned against a tree and exhaled slowly. His heart thumped, arousal juddering through his veins. The need to see Mr J and argue about the set list was far, far away now, obliterated by the memory of Yunho’s long, lean, mostly naked body.

Putting a hand over his face, Changmin screwed his eyes shut and smacked his forehead. Oh fuck, he was in so much trouble.

*

Fifteen minutes before his first performance, Changmin stared at his reflection in the dressing table mirror and added a final flick of kohl to his eyes. His reflection gazed back, features pale and tight beneath the stage make-up, and he teased more of his hair forwards to hide his uncertainty.

He was sure he’d forgotten all of the songs from Ripsaw’s first album. Hell, he’d written most of them when he was still in high school. That was more than ten years ago. Right now he could barely remember last week, he was so out of sorts.

Shit. He should never have agreed to this gig. Served him right for thinking of the ten million rather than of his artistic integrity.

Changmin pulled a face at himself in the mirror and felt a little better. He thought of Yunho and his mood improved further. Yeah. Think of Yunho—that would do it. That would get him through this.

Right after his second bout of unintentional voyeurism earlier in the day, Changmin had walked halfway around the island to calm his libido. By the time he’d got back to the bungalow, the breakfast things had been cleared away, the mess had been cleaned up, and the letter from Mr J had been placed inside on the coffee table, alongside a scrawling handwritten note that read: _What’s wrong? Call me if you need to talk – Y_

Changmin had dithered for a good twenty minutes, distracted by the thought of a wet and mostly naked Yunho, and then he’d picked up the phone and hit speed dial.

“I can’t sing the songs he’s put on the set list,” he’d said as soon as Yunho answered. “I’m not allowed to. I can’t even sing those songs in the shower.”

Yunho was silent for a while. “Do you?” he’d asked. “Sing them in the shower?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Changmin admitted, “Yes. Occasionally. But then I realise what I’m doing and then I stop, because they don’t belong to me anymore. They’re not mine and I can’t sing them and it _hurts_ , so I always stop after a few lines. I haven’t sung any of those songs all the way through since the split. Tell him. Tell him I can’t do it.”

Another silence, and then Yunho said, “Mr J wants you to sing them.”

“Don’t you understand? I can’t sing them in public!”

“You’re not in public. It’ll just be you and him, and who’s he going to tell?”

That had shocked Changmin. “Just... What? There’s no one else coming tonight?” He thought of the auditorium, with its rows of seats that could easily fit a couple of thousand people, and he’d said, “I thought... I was under the impression...”

“You can sing those songs,” Yunho had told him, voice warm and reassuring. “No one will ever know.”

Now Changmin gave himself a final check. Outfit perfect, hair perfect, make-up perfect. He breathed out, slow and deliberate. Usually by this point he’d have had a proper full-scale attack of stage fright, a violent, nauseous twisting of anxiety in his stomach that fluttered up into his throat, but tonight he felt only an eerie, flattened sense of calm. This whole thing seemed unreal; a dislocated dream.

Showtime.

He went out, pressing the button on the remote for the lights. Yesterday he’d taken some gaffer tape and covered the stage floor with lines and crosses, creating his own set of directions. Now he found his mark and faced the audience. An audience of one, and it was so dark beyond the lights that he couldn’t see where Mr J was sitting, couldn’t even tell if he was out there at all. 

Changmin curled one hand around the microphone on its stand and bowed briefly. Straightening, he said, “Good evening. Thank you for inviting me here. Your island is beautiful. I...”

He tailed off, not knowing what to say. He’d never been comfortable with ad-libbing during a concert. The rest of the band had been so much better at that sort of thing, and although he’d got a rehearsed patter for the handful of solo gigs he’d done since his comeback, he’d also had session musicians to support him or a pretty female MC with whom he could pretend to flirt. This was something entirely different, and he could feel his voice drying up.

“Well,” he said, husky and low into the microphone, hearing the echo slide around the room, “I guess I’ll just get on with it.”

He pushed the button for the music, yanked the microphone free of its clip, and kicked away the stand as the hard, driving beats of _Paranoia_ , the first song from Ripsaw’s first album, belted out to fill the almost empty auditorium.

* * *

He woke with a hangover. His first thought was that it had somehow snowed overnight, but then Changmin realised he’d tangled himself in the mosquito net. On the heels of that realisation came the painful knowledge that his head hurt like fuck and his eyes were sore and gritty. With a groan he freed himself from the netting and fell out of bed, then picked himself up and staggered outside to the bathroom. He ran the shower cold and stuck his head under it, then turned up the heat and knelt on the floor with his hair in his eyes and his mouth hanging open, just breathing slow and deep past the drum of the water until he started to feel human again.

Wrapped in a large, fluffy towel, he went back indoors and opened the fridge. Surprise held him still for a moment. It had been completely restocked. He’d torn through all the beer last night, and he could vaguely remember calling Yunho at past two in the morning and demanding a bottle of tequila. When Yunho had stepped out of the darkness with the tequila and a handful of limes, Changmin had snatched them from him without a single word of gratitude.

“Don’t get completely wasted and throw the TV through the window,” Yunho had said before he left.

“There’s no TV,” Changmin had slurred.

“No windows, either.” Yunho had smiled. “Just storm shutters. Goodnight.” 

Changmin groaned, his head throbbing. The last couple of inches of tequila mocked him from the coffee table. He shambled across the room and out onto the veranda, where breakfast awaited him as usual. He didn’t think he could eat anything, but even so, he peeked beneath the covers and decided on a fortifying meal of broth and rice and vegetables, washed down with cups of green tea.

He ate slowly, aware of the whisper of the wind and the ache in his head and the rub of the towel over his thighs. He felt better for eating, his mood almost restored to normal, and he wondered where Yunho was this morning. He wanted to apologise for waking him last night.

A couple of hours passed with Changmin doing nothing more than grazing at his breakfast and letting his thoughts settle and his hangover lift. Then he stirred himself, got dressed, and went for a walk. Ambling along the beach, he scuffed at the sand and paused now and then to pick up a few shells. A little further towards the point of the island, close to Yunho’s bungalow, he found a starfish washed up. 

Although he thought it was probably dead, Changmin kicked off his sandals and carried the starfish into the sea, wading past the surf up to his knees before he released the creature. It sank to the bottom. On the beach it had been nothing remarkable, but now it was in the water, its colours seemed brighter. Changmin hoped he’d saved it in time. His eyes stung and he blinked rapidly. Stupid sea breeze.

The sound of an outboard engine made him look up, and he saw a small boat heading out from a wooden pier further around the shoreline. Changmin shaded his eyes with a hand and recognised Yunho at the helm. The boat didn’t go far, perhaps a few hundred metres out to where the sea lifted with the swell rather than rolled into breakers, and then Yunho cut the engine and dropped the anchor and... Was he going _fishing_? Changmin stared.

Turning around, Yunho rootled in the bag or bucket or whatever he’d got beside him, and when he glanced up again, he noticed Changmin and waved enthusiastically.

Changmin smiled, even though Yunho wouldn’t be able to see it, and waved back.

Yunho pantomimed something Changmin didn’t understand, and then after another few minutes of random gestures from both sides, he realised Yunho was trying to ask if he needed anything.

“No, thank you,” Changmin said aloud—again pointless, because Yunho wouldn’t be able to hear him—then he shook his head and made a wild negative gesture before signalling that he was going back to the bungalow.

Before he left, Changmin looked down into the water. The starfish had disappeared.

*

The day seemed to drag. Before he’d come here, Changmin had been almost desperate for a taste of solitude. Now he had it, he yearned for company. He sat on the veranda steps and had a long, involved conversation with a small green bird clinging to the bend of a palm tree. Maybe it was more of a monologue than an actual conversation, but the bird seemed interested enough. Or maybe it was just too busy eating bugs from the bark to pay any attention to him.

At length Changmin went inside and found a selection of sushi rolls in the fridge. He stored a few in a small bamboo box along with a bottle of mineral water, then went for a walk, following a path he hadn’t taken before into the interior. For a while he couldn’t hear the sea, and the loss of the familiar sound disoriented him. The trail led around and up the hill to the north-east of the island, and as soon as he broke the cover of the trees, Changmin could hear the surf again. He found a place to sit and ate his lunch, his gaze fixed to the little boat riding the swell out at sea.

*

The set list for the second concert was as Changmin expected: the entire of Ripsaw’s second album, plus the B-sides, three songs he’d written for various drama series, and a couple of demo tracks the company had dubbed ‘too experimental’ to be recorded. The second album had been his favourite, so he sang as directed, poured heart and soul into his performance, then bowed to the darkened auditorium and the faceless Mr J—who didn’t even fucking bother to applaud, snotty billionaire bastard—and then Changmin went back to the bungalow and got drunk.

The third concert was more of the same. The third Ripsaw album, the one still in the charts in half a dozen countries, the one with _Excessive Love_ , the song chosen as the theme for one of the highest-grossing Korean movies of the past ten years, the song still played on repeat on hundreds of radio stations, the song used in several TV commercials, and which had been covered four times in as many different languages around the world.

Changmin had written _Excessive Love_ in half a day without almost any thought at all. It had a hook that didn’t let go and it layered and layered to a heartrending finale. The music he was proud of, but he’d always thought the lyrics were shit. Turned out they were simple enough that everyone could remember the verses as well as the refrain, and a dozen different meanings could be ascribed to the song. All of this made it an instant and massive hit.

It was also the song that led to the split.

Of all of Ripsaw’s oeuvre, this was the song Changmin least wanted to sing again, but there was no escaping it. Mr J had placed it last on the set list. Changmin went through the motions, performed every other song with the knowledge that he still had to sing _that_ one, and when it came to it, he leaned against the microphone stand and breathed the words through two verses and the chorus, and then after the bridge he sang, rage and misery cracking his voice, and the final refrain came out in a scream.

He threw down the microphone before the echoes had faded and walked off the stage, his face burning and his chest tight. He forced himself to remove his make-up and get changed, but by the time he made his way back to the bungalow, he felt no better. In fact, he felt worse.

Yunho was waiting on the veranda, patient and concerned. He stood as Changmin came out of the forest and stormed up the steps.

“I hope you brought lots of fucking alcohol,” Changmin snapped.

“Changminnie.” Yunho crossed the veranda and enveloped Changmin in the kind of hug he hadn’t been given since he was a child. His first instinct was to pull away and refuse the comfort, but then he surrendered to it, wrapped his arms around Yunho and held on tight.

“Oh fuck,” he said, the tamped-down emotion of this evening and the last two nights all tangling together to overwhelm him. He could barely speak, his throat clogged with anger and unhappiness. He fisted his hands into Yunho’s shirt and pulled at the fabric, tugged and tugged as if he could rip the colour from the garment. “Fuck,” he said again, his voice hollow. “Fuck this shit.”

“It’s okay,” Yunho murmured against his neck. “It’s okay, Changminnie.”

There was nothing offered besides gentleness. Changmin took it, leaned against Yunho and let himself be held. It felt nice. Uncomplicated. Changmin stayed there, eyes closed, breathing in Yunho’s scent, the familiar combination of sea air and fresh sweat and the sweet woodsy-spiciness of his cologne. 

Behind them, the waves rolled onto the beach and sucked back out, a rhythmic, soothing cadence. Slowly, calm returned, driving back the uncertainty. At length Changmin lifted his head and pulled away, wiping at his eyes. “Where’s that tequila?”

Yunho went over to the table and lifted a bottle of pale blue liquid. “If I’m getting drunk with you, I’m getting drunk on Bombay Sapphire.”

Changmin wrinkled his nose. “Gin? That’s so retro.”

“Maybe, but it works. I make a mean G&T. Want one?”

“Why the hell not.” 

Pleased by the thought that he didn’t have to wallow alone tonight, Changmin followed Yunho inside. Flopping onto a couch, he watched as Yunho sliced lemons and added ice cubes to a tall glass before pouring over a generous measure of gin. The ice cracked. The tonic water fizzed. Yunho stirred it, handed the glass to Changmin, then fixed his own drink. He sat at the other end of the couch. 

“Cheers.”

“Um.” Changmin took a long gulp. The bittersweet kick of the juniper filled his head, crawled fire down his throat. He sat back against the cushions and sighed, the hit of alcohol going through him. “You’re right. This is good.”

“Cures all ills.” Yunho sipped slowly at his G&T. “Want to talk about it?”

Changmin stared at the bubbles in his drink. The ice cubes clinked, the chill seeping through the glass. “What do you know about Ripsaw’s split?”

“Only what it says on the Wikipedia entry, which isn’t much.” Yunho wriggled around to face him, drawing his knees halfway to his chest and resting his head against the back of the couch. “I imagine there’s a lot more on various fan sites, all of it inaccurate.”

“Some of it is. Some of it isn’t.” Changmin had another swig of his drink. “My ex-bandmates—my ex- _friends_ —leaked a whole load of information just as the lawsuit was getting started. People took sides. I always believed that things like this should be kept private, but that was a naive perspective. The fans feel entitled to what they think is the truth. The company wanted to put out their version of the truth. The band presented a different version, and I... I said nothing. Did nothing. No fucking comment. Silence is not a defence, apparently. I didn’t think I needed to defend myself. I was wrong.”

The sound of the waves hung in the air. Changmin tilted his drink, listened to the fizz of the tonic water as it slid up the glass and then receded again.

“I’m sorry,” Yunho said.

“Yeah. I get a lot of that.” Changmin dipped his fingers into his G&T and fished out an ice cube. He crunched it, the noise in his head momentarily obliterating the roar of the waves. “Ripsaw was never my idea. It was the other three who formed the band when we were in high school. It was meant to be something for fun, doing covers and rocking up crappy pop songs put out by manufactured bands. They needed a vocalist; I could sing. I could write songs, too. Good songs, even if my first attempts were kind of emo. But that fitted with what we were doing back then.

“And then we started to get a following. At first we thought it was hilarious, and then we thought, why not, we can be serious musicians. We can _do_ something with this. And I wrote more songs and we performed every weekend and our school grades slipped, but we didn’t care. This was what we wanted, all of us together. And then the company signed us, and from nothing we’d become something, and that was...”

Into the gathering hush, Yunho said, “For a kid who used to collect pebbles for fun, it must have seemed unbelievable.”

“It wasn’t just that.” Changmin ate another ice cube. “People responded to my songs. The lyrics, the music, the way we performed them. It wasn’t just me, of course it wasn’t, but it was the fact that I could reach people. It felt like I was helping them. Like they were helping me. Like we all understood one another, somehow.” He put the glass between his knees and took out the slice of lemon, nibbled at it. “As I said, I was really naive.”

“Music should do that,” Yunho said softly, not taking his gaze from Changmin. “It should unite people. Help people. It should lift their spirits and make them feel.”

“No. It should have a catchy hook and it should make lots of money.” Closing his eyes, Changmin slumped down on the couch. “We always said that if we became big, we wouldn’t sell out. We had this notion of artistic integrity. Kind of pathetic, really. But it was a belief we all shared, and because I believed in it, early on I signed over the rights to all the songs I’d written for Ripsaw. I didn’t want them for me. I wanted them to belong to the band as an entity. I believed in Ripsaw so much, I wanted the money to go towards furthering our career together as a group.”

Yunho moved, lifted his head. “Oh.”

“Yeah. I know. In the history of dumbass things to do, that surely ranks up there as one of the stupidest. I was young. I was enthusiastic. I was a fucking idiot. When we signed with the company, my manager tried to overturn the original contract, but...” Changmin drained the rest of his drink and coughed a little from the punch of the gin. “I deserved what happened. Deserved to be fleeced.”

“You made a mistake,” Yunho said. “Don’t keep punishing yourself for that.”

“A mistake that’s cost me millions.” With a sigh, Changmin tipped back his head and stared at the ceiling. “The amount of money I could have made goes well into eight figures. It’s so much that I can’t actually comprehend the loss of it, you know? It’s like it’s not real. The whole thing just isn’t real.”

“Does Mr J’s ten million help with that?”

Changmin sat up straight. “Yes. But it’s not really about the money.”

Yunho smiled and finished his G&T. “Spoken like a true artist.” He got up, held out his hand for Changmin’s glass. “Let me freshen that for you.”

“Thanks.” Changmin watched him move around the kitchen. “It’s honestly not the money. It’s more... They were my friends and they still made that decision. They stole something that belonged to us all. We shared a dream and then they woke up and I didn’t.” He laughed without any humour. “I could go on, but my metaphors are sounding like shit.”

“Maybe you should write a song about it. Isn’t that what usually happens?”

Changmin snorted. “I did. And then I burned it, which believe me was a good thing. It was bloody awful. I was so upset I couldn’t even get the lines to scan.”

Yunho came back with the drinks and curled up at the end of the couch again.

Aware that he’d been talking pretty much non-stop, Changmin nursed his G&T. “You must have something better to do than listen to me. Something more important, like tracking sand-crabs or whatever.”

“I’m fine right here. Unless you want to be alone.”

“No.” It came out too fast. Changmin hesitated for a long moment to make up for it. “No, I... I’m a bad drunk. I’d just spend my time throwing make-believe televisions through non-existent windows. I like you being here.”

Yunho smiled and touched his glass to Changmin’s. “Here’s to not being drunk and lonely.”

“Yeah.” Changmin lifted his drink and took a couple of sips. 

“So what happened?” Yunho asked. “What made the band split up?”

“Money. Jealousy. The usual.” Another silence. Changmin poked at the ice cubes. “After _Excessive Love_ hit the charts, the company asked me to write some songs. Not for Ripsaw but for some of their other artists. I asked the other guys what they thought. They said if I did it, I’d be selling out. But to me it seemed like the smart thing to do. The others didn’t agree. We argued. Things were... difficult.” He shrugged. “I was writing material for our fourth album and trying to diversify at the same time, and I guess I was so busy, so locked up in my own little world, I didn’t see it coming.”

Changmin took another swig of his drink. “They blindsided me with it. Said the company was taking more than their fair share of profits. We were already established by the time they signed us, so what did we need them for? We didn’t fit the company’s profile. They’d never had a rock group on their books before and they didn’t know how to market us properly. We should leave and join another company, one with a proven track record of handling rock acts, one that would give us a greater percentage of royalties. That made sense, but still—the company had done a lot for us, and we’d had this huge success, especially in Japan, and that wasn’t just down to us...”

He stared into the G&T. Took another gulp. “Long story short, they wanted to go, I didn’t. It wasn’t that I particularly wanted to stay, but I didn’t think they were making the right decision. So I hedged my bets and they called me a coward. Said I was nothing without them, and in a way they were right, because they had my songs and they were my friends and then it was all gone. Eight years of friendship wiped clean.”

The glass was empty. Changmin frowned at it. “The company brought the lawsuit against them for breach of contract, but mainly they wanted to regain the rights to my songs. I decided to enlist just to get out of the public eye while the lawyers did their stuff. I’m sure Wikipedia has the rest—the company and I lost the case, Ripsaw signed with another company, they got a new vocalist, they have the right to sing all my songs and I don’t, and... Well. They’re not as successful now, and I’m here, being paid a shitload of money to sing to an invisible audience of one.”

“Does that make you glad?” Yunho took the empty glass and swapped it for his own mostly full glass.

“It should, shouldn’t it? But it just depresses me, to be honest.” Changmin ran a hand through his hair. “Although maybe part of me is glad that they’re not as successful.”

“Good.” Yunho gave a half smile. “They sound like a bunch of wankers.”

Changmin waved it away. “I was too trusting. Naive. Thought we’d be friends forever. Stupid.”

“Not stupid. Optimistic.”

“Same thing, sometimes.”

Now Yunho’s smile was warmer. “Listen to the cynic.”

Changmin snorted. “It’s all right for you, on your island with nothing to bother you except leaves clogging the filters in the spa baths.”

Yunho laughed. “Let me tell you, that’s a real pain in the ass. This one time I didn’t bother cleaning the spa for a month—not yours, I hasten to add—and it became a breeding ground for mosquito larvae. You can’t even begin to imagine how disgusting that was.”

Changmin went cross-eyed trying to imagine it. He shook his head, drained Yunho’s glass, and held it out. “One more, please.” He sprawled across the couch as Yunho got up and went back to the kitchen. “You’re good at this.”

“Fixing drinks?”

“Pleasing people. Making them happy.”

“Thank you.” Yunho made the G&T and brought the glass over. “So are you. In a different way, I suppose. With your singing.”

Fresh gloom descended. “I don’t know. Usually I can measure a performance by audience response, but I’m not even sure Mr J is out there. I feel like I’m singing to an empty room. Is he even on the island?”

“Yes, he is.” Yunho adjusted a cushion and curled one leg beneath him. “He’s listening. And watching. He loves your music. He thinks you have an amazing maturity to your voice now. Not as bright as when you were younger, but a rock singer shouldn’t have a bright voice. He needs a voice that can express a full range of emotion, and that only comes with age and experience.”

“He said that? I’m flattered.” Changmin swished his drink, listening to the tiny musical fizz of the bubbles. “I wish he’d tell me himself, though.”

Yunho smiled slightly and changed position, tossing the cushion aside and moving more towards the middle of the sofa. “He values his privacy. And he’s aware that he didn’t ask you to sign a non-disclosure agreement before you came here, so if you met him, you could tell the gossip sites about him and that would piss him off.”

“Grumpy fucker, huh.” Changmin tried a laugh. It sounded strange. He sat forwards and put down the glass, then slid back against the couch. “And I thought I was difficult to work with.”

“You’re not difficult.”

Changmin was suddenly aware that they’d gravitated towards one another. How the hell had that happened? He gazed at Yunho, conscious of his scent, the glimmer of sun-streaks in his hair, and the thin, faint lines of old scars scrolled on his face. Emboldened by the alcohol, Changmin leaned closer and stroked a fingertip over the scar that ran from Yunho’s left eye down his cheek. “How did you get this?”

Yunho jerked back as if burned. “Childhood accident. I’m clumsy.”

“You don’t seem it.”

Silence stretched between them. Changmin stared. Maybe it was the rollercoaster emotion of the evening, maybe it was just the gin, but God, he wanted to kiss Yunho—and he had the feeling that, if he tried it, Yunho wouldn’t push him away. 

It had been nine months since the train-wreck of his last relationship, and the Japanese actor hadn’t been half as hot or sweet as Yunho. Changmin couldn’t think of a single reason not to do it, except for the slight wariness in Yunho’s eyes. Changmin could overcome that, he knew he could, but the kicker was that he actually _liked_ Yunho, and in more than an I-want-you-to-fuck-me-senseless way.

“Yunho,” he said, voice low and soft, “can I ask you something?”

Even more wary now, Yunho looked at him. “Yes.”

Relinquishing his selfish little fantasy for now, Changmin sat back and pasted on a bright smile. “Tomorrow, will you take me fishing?”

* * *

Changmin woke before his alarm went off and spent half an hour trying to decide what to wear for the fishing trip. It wasn’t as if he’d brought that many clothes with him, outside of stage costumes, but still he found himself laying out combinations of shorts and t-shirts and wondering what suited him best.

For a fishing trip. Yeah, right.

He settled for a pair of knee-length denim cut-offs and a plain white t-shirt. It was the kind of outfit that, in the normal scheme of things, would ensure that no one looked at him twice. But this wasn’t normal, and he hoped Yunho would look at him a lot.

“Idiot,” Changmin muttered as he went onto the veranda and helped himself to breakfast. He grazed at the food, anticipation weaving inside him. He had three days off before his final two concerts for Mr J. If today’s fishing trip went well, hopefully the remainder of his time on the island would be spent almost exclusively in Yunho’s company.

Three days was a long time. Especially when he had nothing else to do. After last night, Changmin was pretty sure that his attraction to Yunho was mutual, but he didn’t know how to approach the subject. Usually if someone wanted him, they’d make it glaringly obvious by going down on him backstage or announcing their interest on national television or some such thing. It’d been a long time since he’d had to make an obvious move; it had been even longer since he’d had to worry about being rebuffed.

Anyway. Three days. He’d give it his best shot, and if Yunho didn’t respond and continued to treat him as a respected guest, Changmin would be perfectly okay with that. It wasn’t as if they could build anything meaningful in three days. 

The thought cast a small shadow, and he pushed it aside. 

The crunch of gravel sounded nearby, and then Yunho bounded up the steps onto the veranda. “Good morning!” He smiled at Changmin. “Almost ready?”

Changmin finished his cup of coffee and stood, brushing pastry crumbs from his t-shirt. “Good to go.”

Yunho looked him up and down, still smiling. “Do you have a hat?” He patted the scrunched shape of a faded baseball cap in his back pocket. “It gets pretty hot out on the water.”

“Ah.” Changmin hurried back into the bungalow, stared at his only available option, and grabbed the panama hat he’d packed at the last minute. It was completely unsuitable for a fishing trip and it didn’t match the rest of his outfit, but if the alternative was sunstroke, he’d take his chances with looking unfashionable. He settled the panama on his head, teased his fringe back into what he hoped was a flattering style, then put on a pair of sunglasses with smoked lenses.

They strolled along the beach, talking about unimportant topics and laughing at one another’s remarks. 

“You’re intriguingly opinionated,” Yunho said. “You tell the truth in such a way that you make it seem like you’re joking when you’re not. That’s an interesting defence mechanism.”

Changmin prickled a little at that. “You think I’m defensive?”

“I’m sure you can be.” Yunho gave him a bright, happy smile. “But I don’t want you to be defensive on your R&R days. It’s counter-productive.”

Dipping his head, Changmin scuffed his feet through the sand. “I don’t want to be defensive with you.”

Yunho laughed and slung an arm around his shoulders. A simple touch, innocent and friendly, and yet everything in him tightened and woke a thud of arousal. Changmin forced himself to laugh, too, and ducked out of Yunho’s half-embrace as if they were both just playing.

As they passed Yunho’s bungalow, Changmin asked, “That statue you have, that tribal thing—where did you get it?”

Yunho glanced over, amusement glimmering in his eyes. “So it _was_ you creeping around in the dark the other night.”

Changmin wanted to bite his tongue. “Uh, yeah. Sorry. I was just out for a walk and the lights were on and... I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“You wouldn’t have disturbed me. I’ve read that book a dozen times already.” Yunho smiled. “But anyway, the statue is from West Africa.”

“You’ve been there?”

Yunho’s ready smile faded. “No. I don’t leave the island much these days.”

“Mr J doesn’t give you time off?” That sounded unfair, and probably broke a whole bunch of employment laws, but since this was a private island then maybe employment laws didn’t carry any weight.

“He does, but...” Yunho shrugged, gestured at the scenery around them. “Why should I go anywhere else when I have all this?”

Changmin could see the logic. “But still,” he said, “it’s good to visit new places. Meet new people.”

“I meet plenty of people here.” Yunho smiled again. “Mr J has many interesting guests. I think you’re the most interesting, though.”

“Me?” Changmin gave a startled laugh.

Yunho’s smile intensified. “None of Mr J’s other guests have ever wanted to go fishing with me.”

“Maybe I have ulterior motives,” Changmin said, tossing his head and trying to sound simultaneously teasing and amused.

“Maybe you do.” Yunho laughed. “C’mon, Changminnie. Race you to the pier.”

That wasn’t quite the level of sophisticated, seductive repartee he’d been planning, but Changmin didn’t mind. This was easier, this fun, simple bantering. He trailed in Yunho’s wake as they reached the pier and made their way to where the dinghy rode at its berth.

Within a few minutes they were both ensconced in the boat and heading out to open water. Changmin gripped the gunwales with one hand and held his panama on his head with the other, turning his face from the whip of spray as the dinghy cut across the swell. The island looked different from the sea. Welcoming, somehow, with its strip of white beach and the luxuriant green of the forest, the jagged grey outcrops of the volcanic plug and then, further away, the shattered cone of the volcano itself.

At length Yunho cut the engine and heaved the small anchor over the side. It went in with a splash, and when the sound faded, Changmin was struck by how quiet it was out here beyond the breakers. A delicate wind ruffled Yunho’s hair and caught at Changmin’s hat, but there was no force behind it, and Changmin let go of his grip on the panama and on the side of the boat.

Yunho busied himself with the fishing tackle stowed to one side of the dinghy. “You ever fished before?” Yunho asked, baiting the hook with squirmy, wriggly things he took from a closed bucket.

Changmin observed the action with mild distaste. “Not for a while.” Maybe he should be honest. “I caught some tadpoles once.”

“Tadpoles, huh.” Yunho laughed. “Okay, well, it’s not hard. It’s all in the wrist.”

Changmin’s mind went a little blank at that, but he nodded like he understood and watched as Yunho demonstrated throwing the line and reeling it back in. It looked easy enough, and he’d always been a quick study. 

Yunho handed him the rod and talked him through it again. Changmin copied what he’d just seen, added a little flick just because he could, and felt a glow of pride when the line went into the water rather than tangling around the back of his head.

“That’s great!” Yunho enthused. “You have excellent wrist action.”

“I get a lot of practice,” Changmin said, and then wanted to drill through the bottom of the boat and sink into the sea as his brain caught up with his mouth.

Yunho just laughed again and bent to bait another hook.

Changmin clung to the rod with both hands, staring at the rippled surface of the sea. “Now what?”

“Now we wait.” Yunho sat forwards to adjust Changmin’s grip. “Don’t hold it so tightly. Relax. Fishing is fun.” He indicated a couple of clips attached to the gunwales. “Look, you can prop the rod through here and leave it, if you want. As long as you stay aware of the line, you can stretch out and enjoy yourself. You’ll know when a fish bites.” Yunho cast his own rod then began to bait a couple of crab lines.

Changmin loosened his grasp slightly. “What do you usually do when you’re out here?”

“Read. Think. Nap.” Yunho shrugged. “It’s restful on the water.”

“Yes. Yes, it is.” After another moment, Changmin set the rod through the gunwale clip as Yunho suggested and cautiously spread himself out on the bench. The rocking of the boat was disconcerting at first, but soon he sank into it and found the gentle motion relaxing. “I didn’t bring a book.”

“Borrow mine, if you like.” Yunho paused in his task to reach under his seat and hold up a yellowing paperback translation of Ian Fleming’s _Dr No_.

“James Bond?” Changmin raised his eyebrows.

“I like stories set on islands.” Yunho flicked through the pages then returned the book to its place. “Also, James Bond is cool.”

Changmin snorted. “Gadgets and girls.” He paused. “He’s a loner, too.”

“I’m not a loner.” Yunho fed the crab lines over the sides of the dinghy. “I like people.”

“But you must get lonely, living here. Especially if Mr J is hardly ever in residence. And I guess even if he was here all the time, you probably wouldn’t see him very often. He must be a busy man.” Changmin didn’t really care what Mr J did or didn’t do on his island; he was more concerned with Yunho being lonely. No matter how many guests came here, this didn’t seem the sort of life that someone like Yunho would enjoy in the long term.

Yunho wiped his hands against his shorts then unfolded his baseball cap and settled it on his head. “He can be friendly. Other times he’s a pain in the ass. A perfectionist and a bit of a control freak who doesn’t know when to let go. That can be hard to deal with.”

Changmin laughed. “Some people have said the same about me.”

“Hard to deal with?”

“All of it. Approachable and then shut down. A fun guy. A moody bastard.” Changmin’s laughter faded as he stared at the water. “I’m not a perfectionist. I know my limits. I work hard to reach those limits and I try to surpass them and improve myself, but I’m not a perfectionist. I do my best, and that has to be good enough.” He turned his head to look at Yunho, squinting despite his sunglasses and the shade cast by the brim of his hat. “I can be a control freak, too. I may not be a perfectionist, but I like everything to be perfect.”

Yunho smiled. “I can see that.”

“Am I obvious?”

“Yep.”

They smiled at one another, the moment warm and comfortable. Changmin thought how simple it would be for him to lean forwards and kiss Yunho’s smiling mouth, how simple and how delicious it would be for them to kiss on the open water with the sea breeze curling around them and the sparkle of the sunlight on the swell and the scent of ozone...

Changmin’s fishing rod jerked in its clip, clattered against the gunwales. He sat up so fast that the boat rocked. “A fish!”

Yunho helped him land his catch, a large, ugly-looking thing with a huge gaping mouth and boggling eyes. “A grouper,” Yunho said, sounding impressed. “Well done.”

The fish flapped on the bottom of the boat. Changmin stared at it, a sense of panic surging through him. He grabbed the grouper, its slippery, mottled body surprisingly muscular, and flung it back into the water. It went in with a dull plop. Changmin clutched the gunwales and dragged in deep, shuddering breaths. Emotion, unexpected and unwelcome, climbed from his chest into his throat.

“Shit,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Yunho seemed to understand. He put a hand on Changmin’s shoulder, squeezed briefly, then let go. Without another word, he pulled in his own line and stowed away both rods.

“You don’t have to,” Changmin said, feeling guilty. “Not on my account.”

“It’s okay.” Yunho smiled. “D’you like crabs? They’re much easier to catch. Come and see.”

He drew up one of the crab lines to show a dozen or so creatures clinging to the thin plastic rope. Kicking a bucket out from under his seat, Yunho transferred the first few crabs from the line to the bucket with quick, deft gestures. He handed the rest to Changmin. “You finish this one while I check the other line.” 

Changmin took the rope and continued to shuck the crabs into the bucket. He didn’t know why this was easier to deal with than the fish, but it was. Maybe because the crabs were armoured and the grouper had seemed vulnerable with its staring eyes and wide floppy mouth. Stupid, really.

By accident he knocked a couple of crabs onto the bottom of the boat. Changmin huffed and bent to retrieve them as they tried to scuttle away.

“Careful how you pick them up,” Yunho warned. “Their pincers can be sharp.”

“Got it.” Changmin scooped up one crab and bounced it into the bucket more by luck than judgement. When he went to take the second crab, it nipped him. Changmin yelped and dropped it. “Ouch, little fucker! It bit me!”

“Nipped, not bit.” Yunho flicked the escapee crab into the bucket. “Let me see.”

Grumbling, Changmin held out his hand. “My thumb. Crap, it hurts.” He winced, the flesh white in the middle and red on either side of the nip. It throbbed, hurt like a burn from a candle flame. Little bastard crab, he’d be glad to eat it and its friends for that.

“You’ll be fine. Just a bit sore for a while.” Yunho cupped both hands around Changmin’s and studied the tiny injury. “Here, this’ll make it better.” He leaned forward and blew over Changmin’s thumb.

Stifling the gasp that threatened to leap from his throat, Changmin sat bolt upright, jerking his thumb from Yunho’s grasp so fast that he almost unbalanced and toppled off his seat. “Maybe I’ll just...” He turned on the bench and plunged his hand into the sea, a blush firing his cheeks and heat crawling all through him. His cock ached, and he held his hand deeper beneath the water, the sudden cold of the ocean numbing the slight pain. 

“Cool it down. Yeah. Good idea.” Yunho sat for a moment as if he wanted to say or do something else, and then he clipped a lid on the bucket and began coiling the crab lines. “Maybe we should head back now.”

“Yes. Maybe we should.” Changmin kept his hand submerged and willed his erection to calm down, but the caress of the water did nothing to wash away the memory of Yunho’s breath over his thumb, the sight of Yunho’s lips so close to his hand. Oh God, how he’d wanted Yunho to take his thumb into his mouth and suck the hurt away.

Changmin pulled his hand from the water and grasped the side of the boat. Shit, this wasn’t working. As soon as they reached dry land he was going to have to make an excuse to get himself alone as soon as possible, just so he could beat off whilst thinking about Yunho’s mouth.

But when they returned to the pier, Yunho, carrying the bucket of crabs, insisted on accompanying Changmin to his bungalow. If he noticed the change in Changmin’s demeanour, he didn’t say anything, and instead kept up a steady stream of chatter.

They parted on the veranda. Yunho swung the bucket to and fro and smiled. “I’ll take these up to the main house and see if the cook can do something with them for dinner.” He hesitated, gazing at Changmin. “Just call if you need anything.”

_You, on your knees with my cock in your mouth._

Changmin blushed, certain that his thoughts were written all over his face. Summoning a bland smile, he said, “I really enjoyed the fishing trip. Even with the vicious vampire crab just now.”

Yunho smiled back, warm and embracing. “Any time.”

*

Changmin was stretched out in the hammock on the veranda reading a book when Yunho arrived with a modified waiter’s trolley, bearing dinner. “Seafood chowder,” he said, setting the place, uncorking a bottle of white wine, and then bringing the food to the table. “With added crab. Please enjoy it.” He smiled and made as if to leave.

“Stay,” Changmin said. “You caught the crabs, too. Eat with me. If you like.”

“Sure.” With a bright smile, Yunho hopped back up the bungalow steps and drew out the chairs. He waited, hands curved over the backrest, for Changmin to clamber out of the hammock and take his seat, and then Yunho guided the chair in. It was such an old-fashioned, gentlemanly gesture, and Changmin felt flustered and touched.

“I’ll serve, shall I?” he said to cover his confusion. “Oh. You need a plate, too. And cutlery. And...”

“No problem.” Yunho went indoors and found what he needed from the kitchen. Changmin dished up the chowder while Yunho unwrapped a loaf of warm sourdough from some foil and split it between them. He poured the wine and sat, and they smiled at each other.

“I hope I got the crab that nipped me,” Changmin said, dipping a chunk of bread into the broth. It smelled heavenly, fragranced with chilli and lemongrass and garlic amongst the richer flesh of the fish and crabmeat.

“You’re so vengeful, Changminnie.” Yunho stirred his spoon through the chowder and ate, then sighed with pleasure. “I think I got your crab, actually. The taste of remorse—I can recognise it a mile away.”

“You’re crazy,” Changmin said around a mouthful of bread, and Yunho laughed.

The meal, though simple, was delicious, and Changmin enjoyed the luxury of eating with someone who didn’t talk shop the whole time, like his manager and the company executives; who didn’t drone on about themselves, like so many of his dates, or worse, drone on about him. He’d forgotten how relaxing it was to just sit and chill and chat about absolutely nothing of any importance, and while he disagreed with a lot of what Yunho said, especially regarding popular culture, it was actually stimulating and fun, even when things got heated and they argued over whether _My Sassy Girl_ was complete crap or the best movie ever made.

“Sassy,” Changmin scoffed. “What kind of word is that, anyway?”

“You’re sassy,” Yunho said, wiping the last piece of bread around his plate to soak up the briny jus.

“I am not!” They were halfway through their second bottle of a very potable Sauvignon Blanc. Changmin narrowed his eyes and wagged a finger at Yunho. “I am not sassy.”

Yunho tried to hide his smile. “You are so. Sassy Mr Shim. I didn’t expect that.”

Changmin propped an elbow on the table and leaned his chin on his hand. “What did you expect?”

A small silence followed. Yunho ate the bread, sat back and studied him. “I told you when you arrived that I hadn’t formed an opinion.”

“But you must have an opinion now,” Changmin pressed.

“Yes.” Yunho made him wait for a response. “I think... I think you consider yourself more difficult than you really are. I think you know what you want but you’re wary about reaching for it. I think your time on the island is proving more beneficial than you expected.”

Changmin dropped his gaze, toyed with the stem of his wineglass. “It’s not just the island.”

They sat in a silence broken only by the beat and pound of the waves on the beach. Dusk was sliding towards night, and from the forest, a bird called. 

Yunho stood and turned on the veranda lights. “I should clear this away.”

Changmin tilted his head. “Will you come back afterwards?”

A pause, and then Yunho smiled. “Yes.”

“I like talking to you. I like being silent with you.” Changmin shuffled in his chair, looked out at the darkening view. “You make it easy.”

Yunho hesitated as if words clamoured around him, but instead he gestured at the table. “I’ll just...”

Within a few moments he’d cleared away, packed everything back into the trolley, and headed off along the lit path towards the main house.

Changmin listened until the crunch of gravel and the rattle of crockery and silverware could no longer be heard, and then he sighed. He felt full and pleasantly buzzed from the combination of alcohol and low-level arousal, but he also recognised that he was content. He examined the feeling for a while. It had been missing from his life ever since the disintegration of Ripsaw, but now... 

Now he embraced it, and on its heels came another feeling—inspiration.

He went indoors and opened his guitar case for the first time since arriving on the island. Taking the instrument outside, he sat on the veranda steps and stroked a few chords, letting them modulate. He played snatches of songs at random, blues into classical, and by the time Yunho returned carrying another bottle of wine, Changmin was partway through Villa-Lobos’ _Suite popular brasileira_. He couldn’t remember every note within the gavotte, so he fudged it, pleased when it didn’t sound too bad. He’d always been good at extemporising, especially when it came to variations.

Yunho fetched a corkscrew from the kitchen and eased the cork from the bottle. He poured them both a drink, set Changmin’s glass beside him and retreated to stretch out in the hammock, piling cushions behind him so he could sit up. He drank his wine and listened as Changmin finished the last movement of the suite.

“That was nice.”

Changmin accepted the compliment and raised his glass. The wine tasted fresh, cold and ripe with floral notes overlaying the grape.

“Your guitar is unusual,” Yunho remarked after a moment. “Looks like it’s made from different types of wood.”

“It is.” Changmin smiled and put down his glass, pleased that Yunho had noticed. “Spanish cypress here,” he touched the body of the guitar, “and this is spruce,” he ran his fingers up the neck, “and here,” tapping the back, “it’s rosewood.” He settled the instrument in his lap. “It’s a flamenco guitar. They sound different to classical guitars. Brighter, more percussive.” He ran through another chord in demonstration. “I don’t know if you can hear the difference. Salt air has an effect on all stringed instruments, so the sound is a little rounder than usual.”

“You bought it in Spain?”

“Yes. In Cordoba, when we did a mini-tour over there four years ago.” Changmin played a few notes then fiddled with the tuning keys. “It was right before the split. Things were going wrong and... Well, none of us spent much time together apart from when we were on stage, so I did a lot of walking around on my own. It’s a beautiful place. You can kind of get lost there but still feel as if you’re part of the city.” 

He strummed a couple of chords, fast and flourishing. “There’s these alleyways full of flowers, geraniums or something, red and pink and white in blue pots on whitewashed walls. I just kept walking and found this tiny square with an old guy and a dog sitting outside a shop, and the old guy was playing a guitar, and the sound was so perfect I wanted...”

He broke off, wistful, and stared in the direction of the sea. Night obscured everything beyond the circle of light from the veranda, giving him only the sound of the waves. Above them he could hear, far distant and echoing through his memory, the notes of the earthy, passionate flamenco music. 

“I wanted to keep some part of it for myself. A sound untouched by greed and stupidity. Flamenco can be brutal at times, but it’s honest. A pure anger, driven by love. I liked the idea of it.”

Changmin looked over to find Yunho watching him. He smiled. “So I bought the guitar. It’s what I use when I write songs. It reminds me to be honest.”

Yunho cradled his wineglass. “What songs have you written on it?”

“Nothing the company deems worthy of my image.” Changmin took a swig of wine. “Everything I write belongs to them these days. I get royalties, of course, but only if the song is recorded. And nothing I’ve written is considered suitable for my career path.” He knew he sounded bitter, or maybe it was just weariness speaking. He hugged the guitar to him. “It’s good enough for other singers and bands, though.”

“Oh?” Yunho tilted his head in question. “Such as?”

“Well.” Changmin exhaled. “You know _Smoke_ by Mesa?”

“That crappy boyband?”

Changmin nodded. “I wrote that. And _Don’t Turn Out The Light_. And a whole bunch of others.”

Yunho made a soft sound of amusement. “I hate Mesa, but I really liked _Smoke_ , and that annoyed me. I don’t feel so bad now I know why.” Finishing his drink, he rolled sideways to put the glass on the floor. He stayed in that position, looking at Changmin. “Why are you here?”

“For the money.” Changmin started playing again, Falla this time, the melody only half recalled. His fingering faltered and he played without thought, an accompaniment to the words that suddenly poured from him. 

“I want creative freedom,” he said. “I want to write music and play music and perform music the way I want to do it, and I feel like an ungrateful bastard because the company believed in me as a marketable commodity after the split, and they waited for me to complete my military service and they didn’t cut me loose, so now I feel like I owe them, but at the same time I want to explore new things, and that’s a dangerous decision, especially when I’ve been moulded so firmly into one genre.”

He stopped, and a long, soft silence fell.

“Does it hurt that much when other people sing your songs?” Yunho asked.

“No. Yes. Sometimes.” Changmin coaxed a ripple of music from his guitar. “There are some songs I want to keep for myself. The rest I’m happy to share. It pays well, too. But still, I’d like the freedom to decide what to do with my songs.”

Yunho sat up and swung his legs over the side of the hammock, swaying back and forth. His eyes gleamed in the uneven light. “You want to buy out your contract.”

Changmin bowed his head over the guitar, his hair tumbling into his eyes. “Ten million dollars is a lot of money. Ideally I’d like to start my own agency. One that... not nurtures songwriters, because I’m not the nurturing type, but I want to be able to support talent. Encourage it. Not stifle it and misdirect it, but be open to exploring a host of different possibilities.”

Yunho was quiet. 

Aware of how much he’d said, how vulnerable he’d made himself, Changmin gave a short, jittery laugh. “I’ve never told anyone that before.”

Yunho said quietly, “You’re a good man, Shim Changmin.”

“Maybe.”

The night breeze sighed through the trees, rustling the long leaves on the palms. Changmin caught the freshening scent of the ocean, then leaned over the guitar and began to play. A simple melody with complicated, precise fingering, notes plucked sharp like proper flamenco music, and then he soothed the chords, added his voice not with lyrics but as a modulating layer of sound to complement the guitar. The melody turned, became sweeter then deepened, built to a darker sound that ended pizzicato before returning to the gentler part of the melody like a tiny, haunting refrain, and then he summoned the last few notes from the instrument and let silence carry them away.

After a long, long moment, Yunho exhaled. “That was beautiful.”

“Thank you.” Changmin sat with his head bowed, tears stinging his eyes. When he felt in control of his emotions, he got up and crossed the veranda, the guitar held against him like a shield. “Goodnight, Yun.”

“Goodnight, Changminnie.” Yunho slid from the hammock and went down the steps, melting away into the darkness.

* * *

Changmin slept well and woke at peace with himself. It was still early, not yet time for breakfast, and the day seemed fresh and tender. On impulse he called Yunho and asked if they could go running together.

“Sure,” Yunho said. “I’ll stop by in about ten minutes.”

With a glimmer of anticipation twisting inside him, Changmin bounced out of bed and put on shorts and a t-shirt and a pair of trainers. He’d been given them for fashion reasons, but they were proper sports shoes with the air cushions and the padding and everything else that made them ridiculously expensive, so he felt sure they’d be good enough for a run on the beach.

He went out onto the veranda, did a few stretches to warm up, jogged on the spot a little and then ran up and down the bungalow steps a couple of times to show he was taking this seriously. He heard a hiss of gravel, and Yunho appeared on the path, smile bright and beaming. “Morning! Ready to go?”

“Raring to go,” Changmin said. “Which way are we headed?”

“South.” Yunho pointed along the beach. “We’ll go past the main house to the other side of the island.”

They started off slow, jogging more than running, and the steady pace meant they could talk for a while. “Mr J has a gym,” Yunho said. “I should’ve mentioned it before. Should’ve asked if you wanted to use it. I’m sorry.”

“No need.” Changmin glanced at him. “Does he let you use it?”

“Yes, but I prefer running and swimming in the sea rather than lifting weights and doing laps in a pool. Because Mr J has a pool, and I probably should’ve mentioned that, too.”

Changmin laughed. “The sea is right there. If I wanted a swim, believe me I’d have gone swimming in that rather than a chlorinated pool. As for the gym... I work out when my schedule permits, but it’s for show rather than fitness—it’s all about my abs, my chest, my arms. My legs are kind of skinny. Not like yours. You have amazing thighs.”

He silenced himself. Maybe he shouldn’t have made that last remark, but it was out there now and he refused to be embarrassed by it.

Yunho smiled. “And you’ve got a cute ass.” He slapped it playfully and took off down the beach, laughing.

Changmin gave chase, but soon flagged. It’d been too long since he’d exercised properly and he was out of shape, so he slowed to a walk and smiled and shook his head when Yunho turned back and laughed at him, gesturing for him to catch up. Changmin resumed at jogging pace, watching as Yunho ran up to the forest and then returned to the water’s edge. 

Sweat slid down Changmin’s ribs, the breeze plastering his t-shirt to his body. He wished he’d tied his hair back; it was in his eyes, damp and curling. He slowed his pace again as Yunho bent over to pick up a shell or to re-tie his laces or something. A wicked idea came to mind, and Changmin broke into a sprint, his heartbeat soaring and exhilaration pumping through him. 

Yunho straightened and realised that Changmin was almost upon him. He tried to dodge out of the way, but Changmin was expecting such a move and countered it, cutting across Yunho’s escape route and grabbing at him. Yunho uttered a squawk of laughter and tried to duck sideways, but Changmin, laughing now, read his intent and attempted to trip him over. Yunho did some sort of completely unexpected martial arts move and they both went tumbling. Changmin flailed, yelped, then felt himself spun around midair as Yunho reversed their positions to take the brunt of the impact on the wet sand.

Changmin ended up on top of him. They lay together, both winded for a moment, and then the waves ran in and splashed sense into them. Yunho laughed and squirmed, and Changmin tried to pin him, legs and arms going everywhere as they play-fought. Sand stuck to their skin, gritted through their hair. Already striped with sweat, their clothes now had wet patches from the touch of the waves.

His expression bright with excitement and challenge, Yunho gripped Changmin by the shoulders and rolled him over. Changmin jammed a knee into the sand to halt his progress. He got a wave in his face, saltwater blearing his vision for a moment, his hair a tangle, ozone on his tongue and his laughter coming out as breathless little yips. God, this was thrilling, the taste and sensation and the sunlight and the cool touch of the water, and he felt so _alive_. 

He pounced on Yunho, who giggled and giggled and tried to bolt away. The wet sand gave beneath their silly struggles. They rolled further down the gentle slope of the beach towards the sea, and now this was disturbingly close to Changmin’s fantasy of the other day, except they were both clothed rather than naked and—

Changmin’s eyes widened. Shit, he was hard. All this intimate contact had made his stupid cock decide it must be time to come out of hibernation and play with its new friend. Yunho seemed unaware, too caught up in their mock battle. He was still laughing, but any minute now this was going to go from fun to awkward, and Changmin didn’t want that.

He tried to pull free, but Yunho gave a cry of triumph and flipped Changmin onto his back, holding him down by the wrists. Changmin struggled just for the sake of propriety, but it was half-hearted and feeble, and then Yunho’s warm, solid weight was on top of him and oh God, oh yes, _that’s_ what Changmin had been longing for ever since he’d set foot on this island. He’d wanted a thick, hard cock rubbing against his body. He’d wanted Yunho pressed against him, sweet and sexy and smiling down at him.

Changmin couldn’t help himself. He moaned and lifted his hips, inviting more. Above him, Yunho went absolutely still, an almost comical expression of surprise on his face. He stared down in bewilderment, and Changmin couldn’t resist another tilt and slide of his hips, because oh, it had been so _long_ , and he wanted this so much...

A wave broke nearby, stretching out to splash them. Yunho blinked, then shifted up onto his knees. He still held Changmin pinned by the wrists. He looked like he was about to apologise.

“No,” Changmin said, “please, don’t,” and forced his hands free and rolled up to kiss Yunho, hooked one arm around his neck and pulled him down into the embrace. He closed his eyes, the sunlight red behind his eyelids, and focused on Yunho’s taste, his scent, the surprising softness of his lips, and then Yunho yanked himself free, jerked away with such force that he tumbled backwards and landed on the sand with a thump.

Well, shit. He’d handled this better in his fantasy. Changmin pushed himself up into a sitting position, conscious now of the grazes on his hands and elbows and knees from the scrape of wet sand, conscious too of how he must look like a drowned rat, his clothes sopping and his hair drenched, and of course his erection still hadn’t subsided and he still felt horny as hell.

Yunho got to his feet, wariness all over his face. “I’m sorry.”

“No problem.” Changmin sighed, scrubbed a hand through the back of his hair. “I threw myself at you. Literally. It’s not your fault you don’t find me attractive.”

“I do,” Yunho said, low and passionate. “Changminnie, I do. That’s the problem. Because I—” He stopped, glancing almost guiltily towards the main house.

Changmin followed the direction of his gaze. “Let me guess. Mr J wouldn’t approve.”

“I’m just the Man Friday. I shouldn’t fraternise with the guests.” Yunho looked torn. “I’m here to see to your comfort.”

“So comfort me.” Aiming for humour, Changmin leaned back and indicated his stubborn hard-on, then, unable to resist a brief moment of pleasure, stroked it through the clinging wet fabric of his shorts.

Yunho chuckled, expression hot as he watched Changmin touch himself. “I’m afraid that’s beyond my remit.” He switched his focus to the sea, exhaled, then came over to Changmin and held out his hand. 

Changmin considered, then curled his fingers around Yunho’s wrist and allowed himself to be hauled upright.

Yunho kept hold of him for a heartbeat, looking into his eyes. “You’re the most incredible man I’ve ever met.”

Changmin stared, swallowing the rise of emotion that threatened. “Thank you.”

“I have work to do.” Yunho let go. “I’ll bring you your breakfast.” He strode off, leaving Changmin staring after him, aching and unfulfilled.

*

Changmin went back to the bungalow, took a long, cool shower, and dressed in fresh clothes. By the time he was ready, breakfast had been laid out on the table and Yunho was nowhere to be seen.

Though the spread was as tempting as ever, Changmin only picked at the food. His thoughts tangled, and he tried to make sense of them, tried to be rational. Technically, he was stranded on a desert island and Yunho was the only other person he’d seen in a week. His libido was so starved of action that even if Yunho were ugly and bald and overweight, Changmin would still be panting after him like a bitch on heat. Hell, if Yunho were _female_ he’d be all over him. Her. Whatever.

Except none of that was true, and it took Changmin forty-five minutes of slowly eating each individual seed of a pomegranate for him to admit it.

Crap. He had feelings for Yunho.

And Yunho, it seemed, had feelings for him, and everything would have been fine and dandy except for Mr J and whatever weird _droit de seigneur_ thing he had going on.

The trouble was that Changmin didn’t know if the _droit de seigneur_ was aimed at Yunho, or at him.

*

He wasn’t surprised when he didn’t see Yunho again for the rest of the morning. Changmin filled a plastic bottle with elderflower and lime cordial and lazed in the hammock, the remains of his breakfast still at the table like an unwanted guest. Tipping his panama over his eyes, Changmin pretended to sleep but kept surreptitious watch in case Yunho arrived to tidy things away. The gentle sway of the hammock and the lulling sound of the waves ran together with the shimmering heat and the now-familiar screech and thrum of birds and insects, and after his earlier exertions on the beach, Changmin soon fell asleep for real.

When he woke, the air was still and the sun was past its zenith, brutal rays shining directly onto the veranda. The table had been cleared and a sunshade had been extended from the bungalow roof to protect Changmin’s fair skin from burning as he slept.

With a curse, Changmin sat up and flung his hat to the floor. The hammock rocked. He swung himself from it and stalked across the veranda, heat snatching at his bare feet from the wooden planks. He hopped indoors into the cooling shade and sighed, annoyed at Yunho for not facing him and at himself for falling asleep. 

His gaze stopped on his guitar. Changmin picked it up and sat on the couch. He started playing, recognising that the emotion running through him needed some sort of outlet. The flurry of random notes resolved into a melody, something new and compelling, and he broke off to fetch paper and a pencil. He scribbled down the chords, made adjustments, and played it through again. 

Excitement thrummed inside him, a nervous coiling in the pit of his stomach. It was a feeling that only ever came when he knew he’d hooked into a song that meant something. He got up to make more cordial, then looked over the notations he’d made, crumpled the paper and threw it aside, and began again, refining and polishing as he went. This time he started singing along to the tune, making further adjustments as the words took shape and a song emerged from the mass of emotion.

It was dark by the time he came to his senses. He’d been so caught up in his composition he hadn’t even eaten lunch, and that rarely happened. Changmin set aside his guitar and stretched, reaching his arms high above him and wriggling to loosen the knots in his shoulders. He glanced at the papers scattered across the couch and the coffee table, seeing not the whole song now but individual chords. 

Instinctively he knew it wasn’t there yet, not quite at his preferred level of perfection, but he needed space away from the song and he was tired, and finally, after working on this almost all day, he was hungry.

The veranda lights had been switched on and dinner was laid out for him. To one side of his plate was an orchid, its jewel-faceted petals deep pink streaked with white.

Changmin lifted the flower, inhaled the sweetness of its scent, and smiled.

* * *

His sleep that night was dreamless. Changmin woke late to find breakfast already served, but today he didn’t sit outside. He selected a plate of fruit and pastries, brought it inside and ate quickly, eager to return to his song as he reviewed the musical notations and lyrics he’d scribbled down yesterday. Returning the empty plate to the veranda, he gazed at the sea for a while and then went indoors.

Changmin played the song several times, all the way through at first and then starting from various points along the melody. Each time he listened with a critical ear, made more adjustments, and decided to switch to a minor key. He played it again, imagined performing it with the stark notes of a piano woven around with bass and then with the wail of an electric guitar before the drums kicked in. Backing vocals now as he went into the bridge; the dual layering of his voice as he headed for the climax of the song, a huge build-up and then, like a wave, the slow, melancholy retreat, leaving one lingering note in its wake.

The melody was finished. Polished. Perfect. Now for the lyrics. 

He threw out the ones he’d written last night and went for a walk, climbing the hill that overlooked the northern tip of the island. He lay on the ground, letting the breeze trickle over him, and listened to the sound of the distant surf. Unbidden, his feelings for Yunho surfaced and tugged at him. Changmin ran them together with every moment of desperate longing he’d ever experienced, and then he rolled onto his side, unbuttoned his shorts, and jerked off hard and fast, gasping into the warm earth until he was spent and his mind was clear and he had the words of the song echoing and echoing inside him.

*

Dinner was served at the usual time that evening. Changmin sat on the veranda with his guitar in his lap, waiting in silence while Yunho set out the food, and then he said, “I wrote a song.”

Yunho looked at him. “Are you pleased with it?” 

“Very.” Changmin met his gaze. Smiled. “Would you like to hear it?”

After the tiniest moment of hesitation, Yunho smiled back, warm and affectionate. “Sure. If you want to share.”

Changmin’s smile deepened. “Stay and eat dinner with me, and then I’ll sing it.”

“Very well.”

Just as they’d done before, Yunho went inside and fetched an extra plate and chopsticks and a glass, and they sat and ate together. There was no real awkwardness, just a touch of uncertainty that soon faded as they dropped back into the easiness of their relationship. And that’s what it was, Changmin realised; that’s what he’d been wanting all this time. Someone to talk to, someone who’d listen and not see promotional opportunities or access to red carpets or their own chance at fame. Someone who was interested in _him_.

He’d always sneered at the idea of dating a ‘normal’ guy. In his experience, and in the experience of his former bandmates and that of his fellow singers and musicians at the company, few ordinary people could deal with the second-hand pressure of stardom—but maybe Yunho could. Because it wasn’t as if he was normal, either, living on this island and seeing to the whims of Mr J’s illustrious guests. 

Despite the fact that Mr J’s Seoul representative had given him a list of famous names who’d stayed on the island, Yunho had never breathed a word about any of them, not even when Changmin had asked. Unlike almost everyone else he’d ever met, Yunho was the soul of discretion. He was loyal and kind and considerate, and he was sweet and sexy and hot and Changmin yearned for him in a manner wholly unsuitable for a rock god.

It could work between them, it really could. It might of necessity be a long-distance relationship, but that could be a good thing. Changmin was willing to try. Now he just needed to know if Yunho felt the same.

They finished eating and lingered over the last of the wine, relaxed and smiling at each other as they talked. Then, after their voices faded into silence and they sat listening to the breeze and the sound of the waves, Changmin fetched his guitar. Settling back into his seat, he played the song’s melody through to the chorus before breaking off and starting again.

Nervousness added a husky quality to the lyrics. He let go with the song, slid his voice through heartbreak and destruction to certainty, soared into the uplift of the chorus and flattened his tone for the final few notes. He knew he’d fumbled a couple of chords early on because of focusing on his voice, but for once he didn’t care that it wasn’t perfect. Instead, it was heartfelt, and that was the only kind of performance that mattered.

Changmin lifted his head.

Yunho looked stunned. He knew. He _knew_ , and Changmin held his breath, waited for a response, something, anything—

“You wrote that for me.” Yunho’s voice was a dark, soft whisper.

“Yes.” Changmin curled his fingers around the neck of the guitar and flattened his other hand against the belly, the strings pressing into his palm. “I wrote it for you.”

Yunho pushed back his chair, got up, and came over. He stood there, looking at Changmin. A long, deafening silence surrounded them, and then Yunho leaned down, cupped Changmin’s face between his hands, and kissed him, passionate and hungry and with all the aching resonance of the song.

When Yunho pulled away, he licked his lower lip as if tasting Changmin again. His eyes were shadowed, his expression unreadable, but desire shimmered in the air between them.

“Thank you,” Yunho said, soft and quiet, and then he walked away into the night.

* * *

Changmin spent a restless night, his head full of thoughts of Yunho and that kiss. In all his years as a songwriter, he’d never written a song specifically for someone. Plenty of times he’d written songs based on certain experiences, and he’d written songs at the company’s request, but he’d never held someone in his mind and composed a melody and turned lyrics just for that one person. He’d sung to some of his previous lovers, but he’d never told them he’d written that song for them. 

He’d kept his music honest, and in return it had rewarded him by giving him answers to the questions he didn’t know how to ask. Now he had a question, his music teased him, gave a half response that both filled him with hope and made him twist on his bed with despair and longing.

He slept for a couple of hours and woke to find breakfast laid out on the veranda and a heavy white envelope across his plate. Changmin opened the letter. Today was his penultimate concert for Mr J. He guessed the set list for this evening would include all the songs from his solo album and perhaps some of the songs he’d written for other artists from the company.

_I am told that you have written a new song_ , Mr J had typed in that sharp, spiky black font. _I would dearly love to hear you sing it_.

A surge of anger made Changmin crumple the letter. Jealously, he wanted to keep the song for himself and Yunho, wanted to keep it as something for just the two of them together, a gift, a declaration; but then he realised it was a foolish thought. Technically the song belonged to the company. He’d have to get used to sharing it, so he might as well start now and sing it for Mr J.

Changmin sighed, smoothed out the letter, and continued reading. Mr J was impatient to hear the new song. He didn’t want to wait until the evening. Instead he requested a midmorning concert.

“Shit.” Changmin glanced at his watch. “Fuck.” He didn’t have much time. Grabbing his guitar, he shut it in its case and headed for the main house.

On the way along the gravel path, he met Yunho coming in the opposite direction. Yunho held a second white envelope, giving Changmin an uncertain smile as he handed it over. “From Mr J.”

Changmin swung the guitar case further across his back and opened the letter. Just a single line of typeface greeted him. _I would like to meet you – J_

“Meet me?” Changmin frowned, glanced up at Yunho. “I’ve been here for nine days. He could’ve met me at any time. Why now? What does he mean?”

Looking uncomfortable, Yunho said, “He just wants to... _meet_ you.”

Something wasn’t quite right here. Changmin frowned, puzzled by Yunho’s uneasiness, and then he tried to make light of Mr J’s demand. “When you say it like that, you make it sound as if he wants to sleep with me.”

Yunho dropped his gaze, the colour fading from his face.

Startled, Changmin gave a short bark of laughter. “You must be kidding.”

Yunho said nothing.

“Oh, God.” Changmin rubbed a hand over his face, pulled at his hair. “Shit.” He closed his eyes for a moment, then stared through the leaves at the beach and shook his head. “Well, it wasn’t as if I wasn’t expecting something like this. Ten million is a hell of a lot of money.”

Yunho looked up, his expression anxious. “What will you do?”

Changmin blew out his breath. “He can meet me, but not like that. He bought my voice for five concerts but he didn’t buy anything else. I’m not a whore, Yun. Not for him. Not even for ten million dollars.” 

*

Changmin went on stage dressed in the outfit he’d worn when he’d arrived on the island—leather trousers, biker boots, the silk-lined, ribbon-stitched suede vest, and the long, multi-panelled coat of brocade and snakeskin. He’d flicked his fringe forwards over one eye and hadn’t bothered with any make-up.

Since Mr J hadn’t specified a set list, Changmin sang a few songs from his solo album first. He sang them on autopilot, aware once again that he was expected to perform the one song he didn’t want to sing. 

But this time it was different. He hadn’t wanted to sing _Excessive Love_ because he hadn’t wanted to dredge up the bad memories and the biting loss he associated with it. He didn’t want to sing his new song because it was special, a song of courtship and intent, and he didn’t want to sully it.

But as before, he had no choice. A song was meant to be sung, and perhaps if he sang it to a different audience, it would change its meaning and he could get a fresh perspective on his longing.

Perhaps.

Finishing up his fourth single from the album, he hit the button on the remote control to halt the cued backing tracks. He fetched his guitar and a chair and sat in the middle of the stage, adjusted the microphone stand, and placed his guitar across his lap. He stared out at the darkened auditorium, the lights dazzling his vision. Changmin struck a rolling flamenco chord from the guitar then slapped his hand across the strings to silence them.

“This,” he said into the microphone, “this is called _Contra_.”

Until that moment, he hadn’t given the song a name, but it seemed like an appropriate title. Contra: opposite; against. They were opposites, he and Yunho, and yet Changmin felt more comfortable, more at ease with him than he’d ever felt with anyone else. Against all odds, he’d stumbled into this attraction. Against his own expectations, he’d found simple, uncomplicated understanding. Against everything he’d ever thought he’d wanted, he’d fallen in love. 

The island— _Yunho_ —had turned his whole world on its head.

Changmin exhaled past the lump of emotion in his throat and played the opening chords. He shut out his awareness of the lights and the perfect acoustics and Mr J and he sang, pictured Yunho as he’d looked last night on the veranda right before they’d kissed, and he sang with all the pent-up yearning inside him.

The last note echoed. Changmin remained frozen within the song, his breathing ragged. He waited.

Finally, applause. Mr J clapped, the sound rolling through the auditorium. 

Changmin fumbled with the remote control to bring down the lights, but they remained bright no matter how many times he pressed the button. Mr J must have programmed in some sort of override. Anger burned hotter than the stage lights at this manipulation, and Changmin stood, catching up the microphone. 

“All songs are autobiographical,” he said, hearing the bounce of his voice through the auditorium. “They’re autobiographical even if the experiences detailed within them aren’t mine. The songs from my solo album weren’t mine. They were written by others, while the songs I wrote were taken from me and given to other singers. I tried to give myself to the songs the company told me to sing. I tried very hard, because that’s what I do, but though my solo album is polished and technically perfect, it’s missing its soul.”

Changmin paused, aware of the utter sense of certainty filling him. “But _Contra_ is different. It holds my soul. I found it here on this island. I wrote this song for your Man Friday. I wrote it for Yunho.”

Silence dropped through the auditorium.

Taking a deep breath, Changmin continued: “So I don’t want to meet you. I won’t sleep with you, if that was what you were hoping for. I don’t even want to sing for you anymore. Call your pilot, because I’m breaking our contract. I’m forfeiting the ten million dollars. I’m going home.” 

*

Before he could think better of his decision and change his mind, Changmin hurried back to the bungalow and packed his suitcase. It didn’t take long, and by the time he’d finished, his hands were shaking and queasiness roiled around in his stomach. Fuck, he’d just thrown away ten million dollars. He was crazy. Beyond crazy. He’d probably made an enemy of Mr J, too. Yeah, smart move, pissing off a billionaire. Changmin winced, resisted the urge to bang his head against the wall, then straightened up with a sigh.

He’d done the right thing. The only honest thing.

The gravel skished outside, and Yunho came running, leaping up the steps and across the veranda into the bungalow. He looked confused and out of breath. “Changminnie, the helicopter pilot is on stand-by. What the hell happened in there? You can’t give up ten million dollars!”

“Yes, I can.” Changmin closed his suitcase and flicked the locks. “I just did.” He put both hands on his case and laughed. “If I can defy Mr J, I can defy anyone. I won’t sell out, Yun. Not to him, not to anyone. Not ever again. I’m going back to Seoul to tell the company I want to be free to follow my own path. I don’t want people to make decisions for me anymore. I know I might fail, but it’ll be my failure, not something manufactured by a rival company or by the meaningless votes of another group’s fans on a website that doesn’t matter.”

Yunho stared at him. “I’m proud of you.”

“Thank you. That means a lot.” Changmin heaved the suitcase from the sea chest and set it on its wheels. He looked at Yunho. “I told Mr J that I had feelings for you. I’d like to see you again. I’d like to see you again a lot. Lots of times, I mean. I’d like...” Changmin shook off his nerves and stepped forward, took Yunho’s hands. “Come with me. Come to Seoul.” 

The colour ebbed from Yunho’s face. “I can’t leave. This is my home.”

Changmin shook his head. “Just for a few days. I need to know—I need to give this a chance.”

Yunho made a small sound. “This?”

“Us.” Changmin tightened his grip. “I’m not wrong, am I? You feel for me as much as I feel for you. Please. Please, Yun. Nine days isn’t enough, but it’s a start. We both need to begin somewhere. Let’s see where this takes us.”

“Changminnie.” Yunho disengaged his hands. “I can’t leave. No matter how much I feel for you—and I do, I _do_ —I can’t leave.”

Disappointment bit deep. “Does Mr J have that much control over you?”

Yunho shook his head, frustration and despair written all the way through him. “It’s complicated.”

“Come with me,” Changmin said again.

“I can’t.” Yunho exhaled a shaking breath and turned away, hiding his expression. He stood there for a moment, then made a tight, negative gesture. “You should go. The helicopter will be ready. Let me take your bag.”

They walked to the helipad in silence. A numb sense of inevitability settled around Changmin. He kept moving forwards, one foot after the other, guided by the sound of the waves on the shore, comforted by the weight of his guitar across his back. The main house rose up in front of him, gleaming metal and glittering glass, and he wanted to hurl rocks at it, wanted to smash the windows and scream at how unfair this was.

The asphalt on the helipad was soft at the edges, the smell of tar pricking his senses. Changmin lifted his chin and strode towards the chopper. The pilot was running through his final checks. He gave Changmin a curious look and nodded in greeting.

“Your stage costumes will be packed up and sent on as soon as possible,” Yunho said. “I’ll take care of it myself.”

“Thank you.” Changmin swung the guitar around onto his shoulder and clung to the strap. He watched Yunho stow the suitcase in the helicopter, and then they stood looking at one another.

“Come and see me,” Changmin blurted out. “I don’t care when or how. Just promise me you will. This can’t be the last time I see you. It _can’t_.”

Yunho looked torn. “I told you—I can’t leave the island.” He stepped forward and kissed Changmin, hot and sweet and full of longing. When he pulled back, his gaze was clear. “Goodbye, Changminnie.” 

He retreated to the side of the helipad before Changmin could respond. 

Rejection and pain beat an awful, frantic rhythm inside him. Changmin swallowed, looked at Yunho one last time, then climbed into the chopper and set down his guitar case. The pilot shut the doors. Changmin fastened his harness, put on the headset, and stared at the sea. 

He didn’t look to see if Yunho was watching when the helicopter took off. He kept his gaze fixed on the horizon, heart heavy with the knowledge that he’d left behind something worth far more than ten million dollars.

* * *

One month later, Changmin stood in the centre of the penthouse suite of the most exclusive hotel in Seoul and let the multitude of company men, industry executives, journalists, fellow label-mates, well-wishers, friends, and hangers-on flow around him. This party was for him, a celebration of the massive success of _Contra_ , but the chatter and laughter and the clink of glasses and silverware hurt his head and muddied his thoughts.

When he’d returned home from Mr J’s island, Changmin had gone straight into the studio and recorded a demo. He’d taken it to the company and demanded to release it, then told them he wanted to buy out his contract. He might not have had Mr J’s ten million, but he still had enough money from royalties to gain his freedom. The company CEO sat down with him to discuss the matter fully, and together they reached an amicable conclusion and planned an exit strategy that would benefit both parties.

“If you change your mind,” the CEO said, “know that you would be welcomed back. Know, too, that if you continue songwriting, we look forwards to doing business with you in the future.”

The last four weeks had been an avalanche of effort and energy. Aside from the legal work that had gone into the dissolution of his contract, Changmin had given everything to the recording of _Contra_. As he’d thought, once he’d performed it for someone else, the song had changed its meaning. At heart it was still a declaration of love, but now it had taken on added layers. It would always be his song for Yunho, but now it was glossed with his own gratitude towards the company for letting him go.

Despite the rushed nature of its release, _Contra_ was an overnight commercial success. Coupled with the carefully leaked news that this would be Changmin’s last song for the company before he truly went solo, _Contra_ went on to outsell _Excessive Love_ and rocketed to the top of the charts all over the Asia-Pacific region as well as achieving recognition in parts of Europe and the US. The video was simple and low-key, just Changmin and his guitar, and the B-side was an unplugged flamenco version of the song.

Tonight’s party was both celebration and farewell. Changmin snagged a glass of champagne from a waiter and sipped at it. The bubbles fizzed on his tongue, but it tasted flat, just like everything else in his life. Though everything had changed over the last month and he was proud of what he’d put into motion for his future, Changmin still felt stuck, tangled in memories.

He drained his glass and set it down. He turned, thinking he’d make his excuses and slip away. Then he froze, shock and joy rioting within him as he stared across the room and saw Yunho standing against the wall looking lost and out of place.

For a moment Changmin couldn’t believe it, even as his heart sang and his senses went into overdrive. He crossed the room, unable to break his gaze, afraid that Yunho might vanish if either of them looked away for even a second.

“It’s you,” Changmin said. “It’s really you.”

Yunho wasn’t just standing against the wall; he was pressed into it so hard he looked like he wanted to drill backwards through the plaster. He lifted his head, white-faced, his brow and top lip slick with sweat. “Changminnie.” His voice was a thread of sound. “I had to see you.”

Changmin’s happy smile faded. “You’re not well.” He tried to take Yunho’s arm, tried to move him from the wall. “Come and sit down. Let me get you a drink of water.”

Yunho shook his head. “No need. I’ll be fine.”

That didn’t seem likely any time soon. Changmin leaned closer. The sour taint of fear overlaid Yunho’s familiar woodsy-spicy cologne. “What’s wrong? You look...”

“Terrified,” Yunho said, the word sharp with embarrassment. He laughed, but it sounded broken. “I’m terrified. All these people. This city. So much space. It’s—it’s...”

Realisation made Changmin catch his breath. “Are you agoraphobic? Yun, is that why you don’t leave the island?”

Yunho nodded, his teeth chattering very slightly until he took a deep breath and forced himself to stop. “I don’t feel safe away from it. I can’t sleep, I can barely eat, I just... It might seem like a stupid fear but it’s absolutely crippling, and I... I give in to it, Changminnie, because it’s easier. But not this time. I needed to see you.”

Changmin’s heart swelled, emotion grabbing at him. He put both hands on Yunho’s shoulders, felt him tremble. “Let’s go somewhere else. Somewhere you feel safer. There is somewhere, isn’t there? A smaller room, a—a... I don’t know. Tell me how I can help you, how I can make you feel safe.”

Yunho clutched at him, his fingers gripping tight into Changmin’s suit jacket. Beyond the pale mask of fear, his eyes shone. “Seeing you makes me feel safe.” He exhaled sharply; breathed in again. “I’ve missed you.”

“You came here for me.” Changmin moved one hand, stroked his thumb against the side of Yunho’s neck.

Yunho relaxed a little. “I came here because Mr J wants to meet you.”

Changmin let go. “He wants me to sing for him again?”

“Just meet him,” Yunho said, his eyes wide and dark. “He’s offered to double your fee. Twenty million dollars—ten for you, ten donated to charity in your name. Talk to him. Nothing else. Just talk to him.”

The offer was more than generous. He’d be a fool to turn down that amount of money twice, and he’d feel like scum if he threw away the promise of such a huge charitable donation. With a sigh, Changmin nodded. “I’ll do this for you. Not for him.”

Yunho closed his eyes and sagged against the wall in relief. “Thank you.”

Changmin glanced around, wondering if Mr J was already present. What did mysterious, eccentric billionaires look like, anyway? “Where is he?”

“The suite downstairs.” Yunho reached into his pocket and handed Changmin a key-card. He managed the ghost of a smile. “Not what a billionaire is accustomed to, but there was a prior booking for the penthouse and the hotel management refused to be swayed.”

“Good to know I’m not the only person who can refuse Mr J,” Changmin said, his answering smile strained. “Let me say goodnight to a few people and I’ll be right back.”

He squeezed Yunho’s hand and excused himself, made his way through the crowd to the company executives and his manager. He spoke with them briefly, thanked them for the party, then stayed a moment longer when the CEO wanted to introduce him to a couple of people who might prove useful contacts in his future solo career. It was fifteen minutes before he extricated himself from the conversation, and by the time Changmin turned around, Yunho had gone.

He wasn’t going to get away with it this time. Changmin had had enough of Yunho running from him. He’d go and see Mr J, and then he and Yunho were going to sit down—or lie down, that would be much nicer, and perhaps Yunho would feel safer wrapped in Changmin’s arms beneath a duvet—they were going to discuss this situation and Changmin wouldn’t let him go until he had a definitive answer.

It seemed ridiculous to use the lift to go down one floor, so Changmin took the stairs. The sound of the party faded, and soon he padded along the soft, carpeted hallway to the second-best suite. At the door he paused, considered knocking, then took out the key-card Yunho had given him. Changmin sliced it through the lock, and the mechanism beeped and flashed green.

The suite was in darkness. Changmin stepped inside, his eyes adjusting. The curtains were open, the myriad lights of the city gleaming and flickering below him, spreading out towards the horizon. The reflected glow from the night sky gave just enough illumination that he could avoid the dark shapes of the furniture as he moved further into the room.

He halted in the middle of the floor. “Mr J?”

There was a silence, deep and rolling, and then came a soft noise behind him and the lights switched on, glaring and bright. 

Changmin blinked, dazzled for a heartbeat, then turned to face the door. 

Yunho stood there, pale and nervous and determined. “Hi.”

“Hey.” Relieved that Yunho hadn’t gone far, Changmin smiled. “We really need to talk.”

“Yes, we do,” Yunho agreed.

“Great. Let me get this meeting over with first, and then we can get to the important stuff, like you and me and us and—”

Yunho made a small, anxious noise, and Changmin glanced around, thinking that Mr J had finally deigned to show himself. The other doors in the suite remained closed. There were no other sounds to suggest that anyone else was present.

Puzzled, frowning, Changmin turned back. “Where is he? Where’s Mr J?”

“He’s right here,” Yunho said, touching a hand to his chest. He looked even more uncertain, his eyes dark in his pale face. “He’s me. I’m him.

“You,” Changmin said slowly, Yunho’s muddled statement not quite computing, “you’re...” and then shock splintered through him. “Wait. _You’re_ Mr J?”

Yunho tried to smile. “J for Jung. Jung Yunho.”

“J for Jung.” Changmin stared, his thoughts whirling and tumbling. Things made sense now, slotting into position as he recalled conversations through the filter of this new knowledge, but still, but still...

“You said you were from Gwangju,” Changmin said, fresh realisation coming to him as he remembered a barrage of news reports and true crime documentaries over the years. “Are you related to _those_ Jungs?”

“If you mean the triad family, then yes. They’re my uncles. My cousins.” Yunho held his gaze without flinching. “They think I’m dead.”

They stared at one another, and then Changmin looked away, blinking as he tried to process what he’d just heard. “Don’t know about you, but I could do with a drink.”

Yunho gave a breathless laugh. “Tequila?”

“Gin and tonic.” Changmin gestured towards the bar in the corner of the room. “I think the situation calls for it. Would you...?”

“Of course.” Yunho pushed himself away from the safety of the wall and went across to the bar. He busied himself with glasses and ice cubes and slicing a lemon, and by the time he’d fixed them both a drink, his hands were steady and colour had returned to his face.

Changmin took his G&T and sat on one end of the couch. “Come and talk to me,” he said. “Tell me your secrets, since you already know mine.”

Yunho clutched his drink and came to sit with him, curling up around a cushion. “My secrets are dangerous. I would protect you from that.”

“I want to know,” Changmin said softly. “And I think you want to tell me. Why else would you be here?”

“Why, indeed.” Yunho took a sip of his drink, his gaze distant as he stared into his glass. “My father was the head of the triad. He was wealthy. Drug money, mainly; drugs and vice and extortion, the usual mafia business. My uncles wanted him to diversify. Wanted him to start running weapons. He refused. Said it wasn’t honourable.” Yunho laughed without any humour. “My uncles decided to force my father’s hand. If he wouldn’t listen to reason, perhaps he should be taught a lesson.”

Changmin put down his drink. “Yun...”

Yunho looked up, his eyes very bright. He touched the side of his face. “This scar. The one you asked about. All of my scars, they...”

Oh fuck, no. Changmin felt sick. He moved along the couch and took Yunho’s G&T from him, put it down and held his hands. “You don’t need to tell me.”

“My first uncle detained my father at a business meeting. My second uncle...” Yunho curled his fingers around Changmin’s hands. “He kidnapped me, him and his bodyguards. I was eight years old, but I knew what to do. My father had drummed it into me that one day I’d become a target. He told me never to trust anyone. He expected a rival gang to try something, but he didn’t expect an attack from within his own family.”

Changmin touched the scar close to Yunho’s eye. “They hurt you.”

“I hurt myself.” Yunho tilted his head away. “Threw myself out of the car when we were driving at speed along the highway. They hadn’t locked the doors. They hadn’t thought it necessary. After all, I was only a child.” 

He smiled, soft and wan. “My father told everyone I’d died of my injuries. He didn’t reveal that he knew my uncles had betrayed him. Instead he blamed a rival, and the battle between the two gangs was enough to distract my uncles from their original purpose at least for a while.

“As for me, I was kept hidden. My parents feared a second attempt on my life, even though to all intents and purposes I was dead to the family. They cloistered me, kept me wrapped up safe even after my injuries healed. I was homeschooled, did diplomas and degrees via the internet. I had no real friends. No real life experience. In the end I developed an extreme form of agoraphobia. The outside world was fascinating and terrifying to me. I wanted to understand it, conquer it, but I couldn’t follow my father’s path. Instead I borrowed money from my mother and started playing the stock markets, and I accrued and accrued and realised I was good at this. I became a legitimate businessman.”

Changmin leaned against the couch, his mind reeling as he absorbed all of this. “It’s not at all alike, but... We were both betrayed by the people who should have cared for us. Your family. My friends.” He rubbed a hand over his face, scruffed through his hair. “Sorry. I shouldn’t even try to compare our experiences. I’m being selfish.”

“No, you’re not.” Yunho gave him a tentative smile. “If we were to have a competition, I’m sure I could win in the selfishness stakes. But that wouldn’t get us anywhere and it wouldn’t solve anything.”

“No.” Changmin reached out again. “Where are your parents now?”

“Dead. Both of them. A road accident.” Yunho exhaled. “Maybe it was arranged by my uncles. Maybe it really was an accident. I don’t want to know. I don’t want to become my father. I don’t want to feel the need for revenge. I haven’t been part of that family since I was a child, and though they took away my freedom, they also gave me the chance to be someone else.”

“And who are you?” Changmin asked, very softly.

Yunho smiled slightly. “I am Mr J, the billionaire hiding on his private island. I am Yunho, the Man Friday who takes care of his guests. Neither of us would leave the island. Not usually. But for something important, incredibly important, we would.”

“Important,” Changmin whispered. “Me?”

“Yes.” Yunho took his hands. “Changminnie, can we start over?”

Changmin tightened his grip, hoping that this was real and that Yunho wasn’t about to slip away again. “No more running,” Changmin said, then paused. Frowned. “Let me rephrase that. Running on the beach is okay. In fact, I encourage it because I _really_ enjoy watching you, but running away? That’s a no. Running away from me when I’m trying my hardest to open up and tell you how I feel—that’s an even bigger no, and I will chase you the next time you try it. Chase you and catch you, do you hear me, Mr J?”

Yunho wrinkled his nose. “Don’t call me that. I just want to be Yunho with you.” He looked up, hope hiding beneath the uncertainty in his eyes. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the truth on the island. I love your music. I had a crush on you, Shim Changmin the rock star. I swear I didn’t want anything beyond the chance to have your voice all to myself for a while. But then, when I met you—you were different. Not what I expected. You were so much more, and I wanted to tell you who I was, but I didn’t want you to change, like everyone else does when they realise I’m a billionaire. So I said nothing and continued to just be myself, and...”

“I fell in love with you,” Changmin said softly. “You, not Mr J.”

“And I fell in love with you, not the rock star.”

Changmin leaned his head against Yunho. “Look at us. We’re a right pair.”

“Yes, we are. We’re very right.” Yunho smiled, and this time it was warm and genuine, the kind of smile Changmin had thought only belonged on the island. “So how about it—shall we try this again and see where it takes us?”

“Well,” Changmin said, pretending to consider his answer, “now I’m a free agent as well as a massively successful rock god currently at number one in eight countries, I think I deserve a holiday. A nice long holiday somewhere tropical and secluded and _very_ private, with sandy beaches and palm trees. Maybe it’s even somewhere I can go fishing.” He raised his eyebrows. “Do you know of such a place?”

“I do.” Yunho laughed, a joyous sound. “And I can assure you the service is second to none. Your every whim will be catered for.”

“Every whim, huh.” Changmin smiled and leaned in to nuzzle at Yunho’s neck. “Maybe we can get a head-start on a couple of those, what do you say?”

“Yes,” Yunho said, kissing him. “I say yes.”


End file.
